


Through Everything

by StarsandJellyfish



Series: Psychic Sam [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Gen, Good Sibling Dean Winchester, Past Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Psychic Sam Winchester, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26094178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsandJellyfish/pseuds/StarsandJellyfish
Summary: After the last disastrous hunt, Dean is more convinced than ever that Sam needs to work on learning how to use his psychic powers. He's going to get Sam training in them if it's the last thing he does. Of course, that doesn't mean things won't come up to stop them or distract them, or that they won't learn more about each other along the way. The important thing is, of course, that Dean can help ensure that Sam never hurts himself with his powers again. Well... hopefully.A series of connected one-shots, mostly about Sam and Dean's bond as brothers, but also about Sam learning how to use his powers.This is the third part in a series. It will most likely make sense if you read it on its own, but it would make more sense if you read the first two in the series before it.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Past Jessica Moore
Series: Psychic Sam [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1846264
Comments: 32
Kudos: 59





	1. Asking and Doing

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, 
> 
> I hoped to get this story out earlier, but work has been a mare for the last couple of weeks. Luckily, I have had a transfer, so I've got a month off until I'm moved off the island I'm living on and into the city in which I will work. What this does mean, of course, is that I have plenty of time for writing! A whole free month! :) 
> 
> Anyway, enough about me. I hope you enjoy this work. It's going to be mostly from Dean's POV, and I've got a few chapters written already. It's the first one that isn't a five plus one in the series, so we'll see how it goes. 
> 
> This chapter takes place a few days after the last chapter in the previous story, Long Overdue. If you haven't read that, Sam held an angel in place with his powers and it caused him to bleed from his eyes, ears and nose. He also got shot. In this chapter, there is only a mild description of wound care, but if that is something likely to upset you, I'd suggest not reading. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and please feel free to comment if you wish. :)

Asking and Doing

With a groan, Dean hauled himself out of bed. It was still early in the morning, enough so that the Bunker still had the low-lighting that came with the night hours and the eerie feeling that any building Dean had ever been in took on during the dark of night. That feeling had surprised Dean when they’d first moved into the Bunker. How did the place know to be creepy, when it couldn’t even see the sun?

Shaking that thought off, Dean shuffled his way out of his room, tripping over his haphazardly discarded boots as he went. They were still crusted with Sam’s dried blood, and he made himself a mental note to clean them as he zombie-walked his way down the corridor, heading towards the kitchen. From the faint echoing noises reaching his ears, he knew someone was in the kitchen, though whether that was his brother or their angel, he didn’t know.

A few minutes later – and yes, it was a few minutes, he was bleary-eyed enough that he’d glanced off a wall and taken a wrong turn – Dean was staggering into the kitchen, smacking his lips and heading straight for the coffee machine. There was a figure in the way, black head hunched low over the machine. It was the angel, then.

“Cas,” Dean said, as firmly as he could manage in his state. Goosebumps were travelling up his arms with the chill, and he wished that he’d stopped to pick up his robe as he’d left his room. “Get out of the way.”

“Sam wanted coffee,” Cas explained, as if that helped Dean.

He waited for the angel to elaborate, or to move, but when no further explanation came, he had to ask, “Right… And that means you have a staring contest with it? Because, come on Cas, I know you’re an angel, but machines _always_ win. Always. Haven’t you ever seen a movie?”

“I have seen a few,” Cas admitted, finally shifting sideways. With free access to the coffee-maker, Dean took Cas’ sludge-filled mug out of it and dropped it in the sink, muttering that it would be better off incinerated, with whatever Cas had left in it. When he shot a quick glance at Cas to see how the angel responded, there was an expression on his face that told Dean the angel had heard, understood and was magnanimously choosing to ignore his statement. Instead, the angel added, “I much prefer TV shows. Netflix is good.”

“All hail Netflix,” Dean agreed, fetching a new mug and allowing it to fill with actual coffee. “Where is Sam, anyway? I need to speak to him.”

Dean wasn’t lying. The reason he was so tired was because he had spent the whole night worrying about Sam. They’d only just got home from the hospital the previous day, Sam still pained and slowed. Upon arrival at the Bunker, his brother had blinked at him with dulled eyes, a wrinkle between his brow that told Dean his head was pounding violently, then shuffled off for his bedroom. Dean hadn’t seen him since.

It had left him to worry extensively. While both he and Cas had been in the hospital, waiting for news of Sam’s condition, they hadn’t had time to think of anything but their immediate concerns. Left alone in the Bunker for a few hours, Sam patched up and on the mend, Dean had had time to stew, so stew he had.

Disaster had struck in their last hunt, in part due to them hunting a crazed angel, but also in part due to Sam’s lack of training. Dean knew he had power (to a considerable extent, if the way he held that angel in place with his mind had been any indication) but Sam still didn’t know how to control it, not fully. Nosebleeds and headaches often accompanied his actions, but Dean had never seen him bleeding from the eyes and ears the way he had been while lying on the floor, his own blood pooling around him. It had reminded him of their Bloody Mary case, so many years ago, a brief flicker of memory licking at the back of his mind, a flame dancing in the wind.

With his concern for his brother flaring up so strongly in his mind, he had made a decision last night: he was going to persuade Sam to learn to use his powers, no matter how much Sam complained. If Sam had been a minor psychic, Dean might have let it go, might have let Sam do things his way, but his brother seemed powerful, at least to him, and he could get others or worse, himself, hurt if he went untrained.

Two coffee mugs filled, Dean turned to Cas and asked, “Just how powerful is Sammy?”

The angel showed no signs of surprise when he said, “Very.”

“Thanks,” Dean muttered, lifting the mugs with more force than he’d intended to in his irritation. Hot coffee sloshed out of the mugs and splashed down the sides, scalding his hands. Crying out in dismay, Dean put both mugs down and shoved his fingers in his mouth, the bitter taste of black coffee far stronger than the previous dead-thing taste his tongue had assumed. Taking his fingers out of his mouth, he added, “Real helpful, Cas.”

“I cannot be more helpful than that, Dean,” Cas explained, fetching some kitchen towel to ball up and use to dry the floor. Getting down on his hands and knees, Cas continued to speak, seeming somehow dignified even whilst scrubbing at the puddle of liquid splashed over the tiles. “Your brother is powerful enough to hold an angel in place, but he is untrained. If he had a better grip on his gift, it would be easier to register. As it is, Sam feels like raw, uninhibited psychic energy. It is actually quite distracting.”

“I don’t feel anything,” Dean frowned, sucking in a deep breath of the coffee-scented air. Despite the fact that he hadn’t actually drunk any of it, the coffee was already waking him up. Probably the surprise of getting it all over his hands, he thought, but a nice benefit all the same. “He’s still just Sammy to me.”

“You wouldn’t,” Cas stood, sopping brown paper clutched in his hands. Dean wrinkled his nose at the sight, glad he wasn’t the one holding that mess. “Most people have at least some ability to sense psychics, even if it just registers as unease. You are woefully ungifted. Almost everyone has more psychic capabilities than you.”

Narrowing his eyes at Cas, Dean found himself just staring. Learning that he was almost completely without psychic powers was, somehow, incredibly disappointing. It was like a sinking in his chest, one that he certainly hadn’t been expecting, and he only barely resisted the urge to pound his fist against it, to dislodge the choking lump sulking there.

Cas, clearly noticing his discomfort, added, “It does mean you’re hard to find, even without the carvings on your ribs. There is very little psychic energy to latch on to.”

“You make me sound like an idiot, Cas,” Dean pointed out, reaching to pick up the mugs once again. His fingers wrapped around the handles and he grimaced at the stickiness of them. He wanted to put them down and wipe his fingers on his shirt, but then he’d stain the material and find Sam shouting at him when his brother next did the washing. Sighing to himself, he simply lifted the mugs from the counter and held on to them as he stared at the angel. “No psychic energy.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t think,” Cas’ face was entirely blank. Though, Dean supposed, that wasn’t strictly true. Cas’ face had a tick at the corner of his eyes, a give-away to his expression that Dean couldn’t read. Not for the first time, Dean wished he had his brother’s ability to read the angel. Still, he supposed, it did make for a certain element of mystery when it came to speaking with him. “Though some might argue you don’t.”

So the tick was Cas’ give-away to amusement. Trying to commit that to memory, Dean let out a mock-disappointed huff, trying to hide the way the corners of his lips were pulling upwards, and turned towards the doorway, hoping to find his brother to corner. Cas, either from good sense or simply not having anything better to do, remained in the kitchen. When Dean looked back, standing just past the doorway, the angel was sitting on the bench seat, staring blankly at the wall. Bewildered, Dean shook his head and carried on walking, putting foot after foot in the direction of his brother’s room.

……………………………….

Before long, Dean was shuffling into his brother’s room, eyes fixed on the level of coffee in the mugs, hoping that he didn’t spill it again. Steam was still rising from the surface of each beverage, curling elegantly in the air as he walked. Breathing deeply as he stepped into his brother’s room, Dean smirked as the bitter coffee smell weaved its way through the musty old book scent Sam’s room usually took on. There was also the faint tang of iron, causing a burst of worry to shoot through Dean.

Placing the mugs down on Sam’s desk, ignoring the way his brother’s eyes were following him around the room, Dean rounded the bed to sit behind Sam. On the other side of the bed, Sam had his legs hanging over the edge of the mattress, holding them so only his toes skimmed the floor. Dean didn’t blame him. The flagstones were always freezing. Mentally, he made a note to buy Sam a rug, something cheesy, a gag-gift, something to make Sam smile.

Tucking that thought way, Dean swung his legs up onto the bed and crossed them, biting back a curse when his knees cracked. Silently bemoaning the fact that he really _wasn’t_ as young as he used to be – a fact that he liked to conveniently and pointedly ignore – Dean leaned forward and hitched the back of Sam’s t-shirt up, sucking in a wincing breath when he saw the bandage fixed to Sam’s back.

“You must have torn the stitches,” Dean informed his brother, reaching out to peel the edges of the bandage off, ignoring the way Sam leaned away from him as he did. He knew it wasn’t personal, just his brother’s physical reaction to pain. “The bandage is nearly bled through.”

“You’ll have to fix it up, then,” Sam’s voice was still croaky. From the way his brother reached up to rub against a temple, Dean knew he was _still_ in pain. He’d definitely strained a brain muscle, or something like that. “I can’t reach my back.”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to contort yourself,” Dean retorted, leaning back enough to access his brother’s bedside table. In the top drawer, Dean knew Sam kept a first-aid kit. They had one in every room of the Bunker, always fully-stocked, so Dean wasn’t worried about being unprepared. Unlatching it, he flipped the lid and pulled out the needle and thread, along with peroxide. “Besides, we all know you can’t sew for shit.”

“I can too,” Sam whined, twisting to try and see Dean over his shoulder. Gleefully, Dean picked up the peroxide and poured it onto a cloth, then wiped it over the wound. Hissing through his teeth, Sam shot forward on the bed, feet slamming into the floor. Then, muscles relaxing a little, he glared over his shoulder at Dean, hazel eyes dark in the shadows of his lamp-lit room. “A little warning, maybe?” he stuck his jaw out, bitch-facing as usual. Sending a teasing grin his brother’s way, Dean went back to his work. Turning to face forward, Sam muttered, “You’re a jerk.”

“And you’re a bitch,” Dean declared, knowing that it made Sam happy to hear that particular insult. He understood, too. Sam was still wary that Dean would hate him for his powers. To be fair to him, Dean knew he hadn’t given Sam any reason to trust him with his powers before. Now, though, he was going to be there for his brother, going to stand by him and support him, and he was going to push his brother into training them, just the same way he’d pushed his brother into training sessions with dad that had saved his life hundreds of times over. Carefully wiping over the wounds a few more times, Dean began casually, “That last hunt really messed you up, huh?”

Silence met him for a few moments, before Sam admitted, “I guess I’m not as strong as I thought.”

He shrugged after that, a helpless ‘what can you do?’ gesture. From Sam’s tone of voice, it sounded as if he really believed that as well, _hoped_ it, even. Sighing, Dean folded the dirtied cloth, putting it aside on Sam’s rumpled sheets. Picking up the needle, he began to carefully sterilise it, giving him something to do with his hands as he tried to pick the right words, the right way to tell Sam that it wasn’t his power that was lacking, but his understanding of how to use it.

Eventually, Dean gave up.

Biting his lip, hesitating just a little bit more, he finally opened his mouth and said, “Cas says your real strong, Sammy.”

Wide shoulders tensed up at that, his brother’s shaggy head of hair ducking down. Dean could just picture Sam’s face, stony and tight-lipped, fox-like eyes fixed firmly on his lap.

Not sure how to break the tension, Dean reached out and patted Sam’s shoulder, snatching his hand back when Sam flinched. Instead, he went back to threading the needle. Inspecting the wound, he saw that it wouldn’t need many stitches, the hole only having widened a little from where they had struggled to get the bullet out in the hospital. Tapping his brother gently by the wound, informing him that he would begin stitching, Dean began his work. Again, Sam let out a softly pained sound, but beyond that he held still, good the way he’d always been when it came to wound care.

“What you need is to learn how to use your powers,” Dean told him, hoping to take his mind off the pain. Sam was strong, Dean knew, he could handle it, but there was no need for unnecessary suffering, especially not after all the suffering Sam had been through in his life. Just another reason Dean wanted Sam to learn to use his powers. If he knew what he was doing, he’d stop hurting himself unnecessarily when he was using them. “We can go to psychics, see if anyone can help.”

“If I’m as powerful as everyone thinks I am, then who’s going to help?” Sam bit out, a sour note curling into his voice. “Probably only Crowley or… or Lucifer…,” he lowered his voice saying that name, swallowed thickly, but carried on brave-faced, “Or some other demon. Might as well stick me back on the blood and call it a day.”

“Sammy,” Dean sighed, pausing in his work for a moment. Silently urging his brother to face him, Dean pursed his lips when Sam stayed stubbornly facing the opposite wall. “Come on, Sam,” Dean took up his work again, glad he was almost finished. “We can get Missouri to help or something. She always liked you.”

“Last time we saw her, she slapped me,” Sam pointed out, though a current of fond amusement had crept into his tone. Glad for it, Dean finished his stitches. Setting the needle and excess thread to the side, Dean reached into the first aid box for surgery patches and tape, measuring out the lengths of tape he’d need first, knowing that his brother would complain if he didn’t. No matter the situation, no matter if they were fighting, or in a bad place, or having a fairly good day, Sam always bitched about the tape measuring, and how it _had_ to come first. If the tape isn’t measured first and cut ready, why even put the patch against the wound? “I think it’s fairly conclusive to say that she probably wouldn’t help.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Sammy,” contradicted Dean, though from the teasing in Sam’s tone, Dean knew that his brother didn’t believe Missouri would really turn them down if they were in need. “She just likes to let you know who’s in charge.”

“I think I preferred it when she only let _you_ know who was in charge,” Sam ground out, teeth clenched as Dean wiped the wound down with peroxide again, just to be sure. “But I guess we could ask her for her help. She might be able to teach me the basics.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Dean agreed, finally taping the patch in place on Sam’s back. “Plus, that woman looks like she can make a mean pie,” he added, patting the tape in place lightly. Work done, he tugged his brother’s shirt back down and began to gather up the rubbish from the bed and into his lap, screwing his nose up at the bloody bandages he left littering his thighs. “Better than yours, anyway.”

“Screw you!” Sam exclaimed, reaching to the side and picking up a pillow, before swinging it around his body and sideways. It hit Dean square in the chest, with enough force to tell him that his brother was certainly feeling at least a little bit better. “I make a great pie!”

“Sure, if you count charcoal pie,” Dean grinned, flipping the first aid box lid closed quickly and throwing himself backwards off the bed.

Just catching his feet under him in time, Dean danced backwards as Sam crawled onto the centre of the bed and scowled heartily at him. With enthusiasm the likes of which only a little brother could summon, Sam picked up his pillow and flung it at Dean again, laughing brightly when Dean took it to the face, unable to deflect it due to the rubbish clutched in his hands. Unsure whether he should be annoyed or pleased, Dean settled on delighted when he registered Sam’s bright peal of laughter. It wasn’t often he got to hear it, not since Hell.

“Take that back!” Trying not to move too vigorously, obviously unwilling to tear the stitches he’d just had put back in, Sam shook his head at Dean. Even in the darkened room, Dean could see his brother’s dimples cutting deep groves into his cheeks. It truly warmed Dean’s heart to see them. “You ate the whole thing the last time I made one! I didn’t get any!”

“Every pie ought to be treated with respect,” Dean retorted, pointing his nose up in the air. “Even the pies that aren’t so beautiful.”

Shaking his head, lost for words and grinning widely, Sam reached to the corner of his bed. Dean noticed, for the first time, that Sam had one of Dean’s shirts stuffed into the corner. What it was doing there, Dean didn’t know, and he didn’t get much time to contemplate it before it was hitting him right in the face, knocking him off balance.

Stumbling back, Dean found himself tripping over the bin. Together, they went down, Dean sprawled on the floor amid a mass of bandages, screwed up paper and the used needle and thread. Blinking at the ceiling, Dean lay winded. It was only when he heard Sam’s guffaw of laughter that he sat up, hands slamming down onto the stone beneath him in mock outrage as he did so.

“You really think I need to practise my powers?” Sam asked him. The subject change threw Dean for a second, left him blinking at Sam in confusion, brows lowered in complete lack of comprehension. Switching gears took him a few moments, but when he did, he gave Sam a slow nod. Delight seemed to spread across Sam’s features, teasing somehow. Dean didn’t understand it, right up until he did.

Something hit him in the back of the head. It was only light, nothing painful, but the pressure was still there, as was the skittering sound made when whatever it was dropped back down to the floor. Twisting, Dean looked behind himself. Behind him, laying innocuously on the floor, was a screwed up ball of paper. Here and there, scribbled out bits of writing were visible, but beyond that, it was completely ordinary. Blinking at it slowly, Dean narrowed his eyes, raised a hand across his body to poke at it. It moved like an ordinary ball of paper.

Turning back to Sam, he asked, “Did you just throw a ball of paper at me?”

Innocently, Sam sat himself cross-legged on the bed, hands folded loosely in his lap.

“You asked me to practise my powers,” he pointed out, acting like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. For the first time in a long time, Dean found himself bitch-facing back at his brother. From the way Sam barely contained his snort, he figured he wasn’t very good at it. Though, to be fair, he had far less practise than Sam, seeing as he didn’t feel the need to stick out his bottom jaw and scowl at every little thing. With the same innocent tone, Sam said, “I’m just doing what you asked.”

Another ball of paper bounced off his temple. Resisting the urge to fold his arms, knowing he’d look like a toddler mid temper-tantrum if he did, Dean instead hauled himself to his knees. Once again, a paper ball hit him in the back of the head.

Looking up at Sam, one eyebrow raised, Dean found he couldn’t keep his stern expression for long. Seeing Sam use his powers for something so innocent, in a way that wasn’t hurting his brother, was actually a lightening experience for Dean. Knowing that Sam could find joy in what he had, it left Dean feeling like he didn’t have to worry so much. Obviously, Sam wasn’t as horrified by his powers as he had feared, if his brother was using them for practical jokes.

With a twinkle in his eye, Dean snatched the next ball of paper out of the air before it hit him, then launched it at Sam. It sailed through the air, dead on, about to nail Sam in the face, when… It stopped, hung suspended for merely a moment. Dean held his breath in anticipation. Then, to no surprise from him, it began soaring back his way. But when it neared him, up it went instead, up, until it was hovering over him. Only then did Sam let it go, allowing it to plop onto Dean’s head and roll off, hitting his shoulder on its way to the floor. Shaking his head, Dean couldn’t hold in a chuckle.

That chuckle was a mistake. Upon hearing it, Sam must have come to a spit-fire decision, because in the time it took Dean to blink, _all_ the balls of paper on the floor were floating, spinning in place. Eyes widening, he met Sam’s hazel gaze with his own mock-affronted green one. They started at each other, a standoff.

Quick as lightning, Dean threw himself to the floor, trying to gather up the bandages and supplies he’d dropped when he’d tripped over. As he did so, the paper began to pelt him. Being paper, it didn’t hurt, but it was relentless. Instead of falling to the floor, as anyone else’s ball of thrown paper would, it rolled back up into the air, wave after wave of paper hitting him. Growling and laughing at the same time, Dean fended them off with his own palms, batting them away, only for them to come bounding back.

Looking up, rubbish finally gathered into his hands, Dean met Sam’s gaze again. His brother’s eyes were sparkling with mirth, dimples cutting _deep_ into his cheeks. There was no strain about him, no indication that he was about to start bleeding from any orifice, that he was about to suffer from a severe migraine. No, Sam looked actually happy, actually _content_. It was nice.

Tucking that image of his brother deep inside, Dean stumbled backwards, staggering out of the room. Gathering all the trash into one hand, Dean used the other to swing the door shut, thinking himself free from bombardment.

It was an illusion he did not get to keep for long. Paper balls started pelting his legs through the grate at the bottom of the door.

“Hey!” he cried, slamming his free palm against the door. “You have my coffee in there! Sammy!”

“You shouldn’t have left it with me,” Sam declared, voice warm and jubilant. “All I see here is _my_ coffee. Two cups of it, in fact.”

“Sammy,” Dean groaned, unable to keep the lightness from his own voice. “How am I meant to stay awake if you won’t give me my coffee?”

“Go to bed earlier,” Sam suggested, smugly. Dean made a mocking face at the door, and Sam must have sensed it, because one of the paper balls stopped hurling itself at his legs and instead raised up, up, up, until it was level with his face. Then, it threw itself forward, glancing off his nose. Screwing his face up in mild annoyance, Dean rolled his eyes. Through the door, he called, “You get less sleep than me!”

“I don’t need as much,” Sam argued, good-naturedly.

To Dean’s surprise, the paper balls stopped moving at that. Confused, he glanced down at his bare feet, crumpled paper lying half on and half off his foot, forming a mound around him. But, more importantly, a coffee mug had made its way through the grate, not a single drop spilled.

Bending down, Dean picked the mug up and took a sip, closing his eyes to savour the taste. Groaning softly, he let the beverage run down his throat, warm him from the inside out. From the other side of the door, Dean heard Sam’s faint huff of laughter.

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean said, before taking another sip. He really did make a mean coffee. Secretly, he bet Sam was jealous of his skill. Who cared if he wasn’t psychic? His coffee was the best. “I’m off,” he added, kicking a few of the paper balls back under the grate in the door, into Sam’s room. As he did so, he watched as they picked themselves up, probably to put themselves back in Sam’s bin. “Gonna go see if Cas is still staring at the wall in the kitchen.”

“See you, Dean,” Sam called, powers still fetching all the makeshift projectiles from outside the door and bringing them back into his room.

Shaking his head fondly, Dean head back towards the kitchen, a bit of a skip in his step. Glad that he hadn’t upset Sam with his suggestion, pleased to see that Sammy was willing to learn more about his powers, Dean decided to have his coffee, freshen up and then call Missouri. The sooner they got started with Sam’s training, the better. The sooner Sam was trained, the sooner Dean could stop worrying so much about his brother. The sooner Dean could stop worrying about his brother, the sooner they could both act like children again, act like they’d been acting that morning.

With that dream in mind, Dean sipped his coffee and grinned to himself, excitement coursing through him. Soon, real soon, they would be properly happy again.


	2. Avoiding Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean called Missouri days ago, asking for her help. Sam's powers tell him that she's coming today, but he's a little nervous about the reception. Dean, on the other hand, isn't worried at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. It's pretty light on plot, but I liked it anyway. 
> 
> Please feel free to comment, if you wish. :)

Avoiding Disaster

Breathing in the bitter scent of coffee, Dean leaned over his half-filled mug in distaste. Tar seemed to be congealing in the bottom of it, with a shallow puddle of liquid covering that. With one hand, Dean rocked the cup back and forth, watching as the watery brown beverage rolled over itself, tiny waves rocking on the surface.

“What’s this?” he finally asked, flicking his gaze up to the angel standing above him.

“Coffee,” despite his bland tone, Cas still managed to sound pleased with himself. Dean furrowed his eyebrows at him. “I made it.”

“With what?” he didn’t mean to sound so horrified, but what he held in his hands was an abomination more than anything else, or perhaps a new kind of chemical weapon. “It’s… thin.”

“With the coffee machine,” Cas cocked his head to the side, before climbing onto the bench seat across from Dean. “What else?”

Dean hummed, then huffed. Finally, regretfully, he pushed the mug away, leaving it to sit between him and Cas forlornly. Steam still rose from its depths, but there was nothing appetising about it. In fact, Dean was almost certain it was more smoke than steam.

“I think you need more practise,” he declared, leaning his head on one hand. His face squished up under his palm, forcing one eye closed, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was _so_ tired, and he wouldn’t even get to have any caffeine for at least a few more minutes. That was, if Cas managed to press the right combination of buttons to get the machine to work properly. Which, judging by his first attempt that morning, was unlikely. “I can’t drink that.”

Cas opened his mouth, readying himself to speak, when Sam walked in.

It had been a week since he’d spoken to Sam, and a few days since he’d spoken to Missouri about Sam’s training. The bullet wound was healing nicely, and Sam was walking with much more fluidity than he’d had that day. It was clear he still wasn’t one-hundred percent, an effect only exacerbated by his own sleepy stumbling, but Dean was glad to see his brother was fully on the mend.

As Sam shuffled forward, pressing his hand to his mouth to smother a yawn, Dean watched as his eyes zeroed in on the mug on the table. Before he could reach to stop him, Sam had staggered forward, nearly tripping over his own feet, snatched the cup up and took a hearty swig.

Within seconds, Sam was spitting into the sink, eyes watering. Bringing his wrist up to wipe over his mouth, Sam turned to stare at them both, brows furrowed and eyes holding what looked like a glimmer of hurt in them. Worried, Dean tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to him.

“What,” Sam asked, sticking his tongue out as if he were going to scrub at it with a sponge, before clearly deciding better. Instead, he flicked his incredulous gaze between Cas and Dean, and finished his question, “Was _that_?”

“Coffee, apparently,” Dean shrugged, still leaning his face into one hand. Blinking at Sam through his one open eye, Dean shifted his gaze to Cas’ in explanation. From Sam’s nod, Dean knew he’d got the message.

“You need more practise, Cas,” Sam decided, turning back to the sink. Determinedly, Sam turned the tap on and ran the mug under it, before tipping it upside down. Only the thin brown liquid on the top splashed out. Inside, Dean could just about make out, the tar-like substance clung to the sides, sticking better than a limpet. “Though I guess you got it to make _some_ liquid today.”

At that, Cas seemed to deflate. Dean knew he should have been more concerned, but the fact that he had understood the angel’s body-language at all was exciting him, enough so that he pushed himself upright in his seat, almost toppling backwards as he did. It was only Sam’s pointed cough and slight shake of his head that stopped Dean from teasing the angel, forcing him to recognise that, actually, Cas looked kind of upset. Sighing, Dean reached across the table and patted the angel’s shoulder comfortingly, before sitting himself back down.

The shutting of the fridge door startled Dean, drawing his attention back to his brother. Sam was holding a single stick of celery, heading towards the table. Within moments, he’d slid in next to Cas, patting the angel on the shoulder in much the same way that Dean had. A peppery scent permeated the air as Sam bit down on what appeared to be his breakfast, and the crunching noise that came with it grated on Dean’s nerves just a little more than it should have. That was what he got for not making his own coffee, he guessed.

“What are you doing?” he asked Sam, rubbing at his eyes. Geometric patterns danced behind his eyes at the pressure, a kaleidoscope of colours and shapes leaping into existence. Opening his eyes, he noticed his brother’s confused look, so elaborated. “You’re normally up much earlier. Running, or whatever. Late night?”

“I can’t run at the moment,” Sam pointed out. Dean gave a small nod, accepting that. Across from him, Sam took another small bite of celery, mulling something over. Eventually, he came to some kind of conclusion, determination spreading itself across his face. Once he’d finished chewing, he added, “And I had a weird dream last night.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Weird how?”

“Like I used to get,” Sam admitted, eyes flicking down to the surface of the table. A faint flush of colour bloomed in his cheeks, like he was embarrassed to be admitting it. “From the demon blood.”

“That was not from the demon blood,” Cas jumped in before Dean could, reaching out a hand and wrapping it around Sam’s. With both of Sam’s hands held up near his face, fiddling with the vegetable he was holding, it only made the angel’s action weird. Dean watched, amusement curling the corners of his lips, but concern furrowing his brow, as Sam turned to Cas with a truly bewildered expression on his face. He could barely contain his laugh as his brother tugged hesitantly at his hand. Cas did not let go. “That was a power you already possessed. It was one of your strongest, so it slipped past the hold the blood had on you.”

“Can you… let go of my hand, please?” Sam asked, as if he hadn’t heard what the angel had said. Only the slight loosening of tension on his face, visible in the corners of his eyes, the slackening of his lips, told Dean that he’d heard and understood what had been said. His brother’s face relaxed further when Cas finally let go of him, a wide eyed expression directed towards his brother. Dean couldn’t read it. Gratefully, Sam sent an awkward smile Cas’ way, then turned to Dean and said, “I guess I really do need to learn more about my powers, huh?”

Knowing that the realisation bothered Sam, Dean simply pressed his knee to his brother’s under the table. There was nothing he could do to make the situation better, save for making light of his brother’s powers in the first place. Sometimes, though, that wasn’t what Sam wanted or needed. Dean got the feeling that this was one of those times. Instead, he reached out and snagged Sam’s celery stick, biting into it himself.

Grimacing, he handed it back. A bitter taste was spreading around his mouth, leaving him wanting to gag, just a little. A small chuckle escaped Sam’s lips, and Dean found himself glad that he’d managed to distract his brother. That was, until he remembered that Sam had had a dream like he’d used to have. That meant…

“Sam, what did you dream about?” Dean asked, worry making his voice harder than he meant for it to be.

“Nothing big,” Sam waved him off, taking another, larger bite of his celery. “We just have to clear the entrance-way. I saw Missouri slip and fall down the stairs because one of us dragged wet leaves in on our shoes and left them up there. No big deal.”

“Your dreams used to be big deals,” Dean wasn’t trying to be cruel, but he wasn’t lying. Dean couldn’t remember a single instance of Sam having a vision that didn’t come true. When he said as much, Sam only snorted.

“Nope,” he declared, peeling a strip of the celery away. It curled into a string before he put it in his mouth, his jaw working as he chased the strip around his teeth with his tongue. It served to buy him time to think, Dean supposed. When he was finally done, he added, “That time I had a vision Max was going to kill you, I prevented that. That was the time I realised I could use telekinesis, remember?”

“Sam is right,” Cas cut in again, looking between Dean and his brother with big blue eyes. “There is no reason that Missouri should die today. I do not believe she will.”

“But she _is_ coming today?” Dean asked, having received no confirmation. On the phone a few days ago, the woman had told him that she would be popping over just as soon as she had cleared her schedule, but she hadn’t said when that would be, only that she’d phone in advance. Having had no such phone-call, Dean wasn’t certain they were telling the truth. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, opening his mouth to speak further. Before he could, Dean’s cell began buzzing.

Surprised, Dean fished into the pocket of his robe, eyes flicking between what he was doing and his brother. Amusement coursed through him when he saw Sam’s distaste for his dressing gown in the wrinkling of his brother’s nose, and he made sure to make more of a show of retrieving his cell than he ordinarily would have done.

Once he had it in his hand, he held it up to his face. A laugh burst out of him, relief making him feel just a little fluttery. It wasn’t Missouri at all.

Staring at the phone until it stopped ringing, Dean felt both Cas’ and Sam’s confused stares on him. Lifting his eyes to meet theirs, he gave them a sheepish smile and a shrug. He was just about to offer an explanation when his cell began ringing again. This time, it was a number he knew.

Missouri’s name was flashing at him from the screen, insistently demanding he speak with her. Eyes wide, mouth falling open just a little in surprise, Dean meet his brother’s hazels as he slid the accept call bar across the screen, then lifted the cell to his ear.

“About time you picked up,” sniffed Missouri. Dean could practically see her, folding her arms across her chest and pursing her lips at him. “I thought I was gonna have to wait another ten years before I heard from you again, Dean Winchester.”

“Sorry,” Dean hunched inwards, tucking his head between his shoulders. Sam let out a small huff, laughter sparking in his eyes, twitching at the corners of his lips. Dean pointed a stern finger at him, which only had his brother struggling to contain himself more. “I just wasn’t expecting your call. And was. It’s complicated.”

There was a pause, and then, “Sam, I take it.”

“Sam,” Dean agreed, nodding his head slowly.

“In that case, you already know I’m on my way,” Missouri said. In the background, the faint sound of cars passing could be heard. Knowing Missouri, she would have waited to get to a rest stop before she phoned them, and Dean was fully aware that she’d be eager to get back on her way. No wonder she was a little grumpy about him taking a while to answer. “I’ll be there this evening. Have a nice meal ready, Dean Winchester.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Dean agreed, squeezing his expression up in confusion when he found himself agreeing to her request so quickly. “Will do.” Planning to hang up, he decided better very quickly. Bringing his cell back to his ear, he added, “Take care.”

“I will, Boy,” Missouri decided, in that tone of voice that told Dean what she said went. It was a tone of voice very few women managed to capture, but it was one that always made Dean think that even the universe wouldn’t dare cross them. The only other person Dean knew who could manage it was Jody, and even then, she could only manage it occasionally. Shaking that thought off, Dean turned his focus back on Missouri, just as she was saying, “…and tell your brother not to worry about me. I don’t feel like dying today.”

“I will—” the beeping that signified the end of a call greeted his ears before he’d even finished speaking. Blinking down at his cell with raised eyebrows, he turned to his brother. “She hung up on me.”

“I would, too,” Sam decided, sparing no sympathy for him. Popping the last of the celery into his mouth, Sam pressed his hands against the table top, and pushed himself to his feet. “We better get ready for Missouri,” he slid his gaze between Dean and Cas, lips pursed in thought. “I don’t think she’ll appreciate the mess.”

With that, Sam turned on his heel, heading towards the doorway.

Walking stiffly the way he was, Dean saw as Sam’s t-shirt clung loosely to him, the way the curve of his ribs were just visible. Shaking his head, Dean couldn’t help but call out.

“You need to eat more. I’ll make breakfast.”

Turning in the doorway, Sam met Dean’s eyes. They stared at each other for a long moment. Distantly, Dean was aware of Cas staring between them, dark blue eyes wide and concerned. Across the kitchen, Sam’s jaw worked, but ultimately he decided not to stick it out. He wasn’t going to out-stubborn Dean today, then. That was good, Dean knew. Once Sam had put his mind to something, nobody was coming between him and that something. His little brother was the stubbornest person he knew, which could be beyond frustrating at times. Luckily, he’d obviously decided against arguing Dean on breakfast.

“Let me get dressed, at least,” Sam said, backing down. His shoulders fell when he did so, just as Cas’ did once the stalemate had been broken. “I feel gross.”

Dean bit back his inspired retort of ‘you are gross’, and instead gave a short nod of his head. Gratefully, Sam sent a small smile his way, then turned away. It was only as he was half-way through his turn that Dean realised Sam was worrying. Facing away from them, Sam had let his brow furrow deeply, had let that tension around his eyes creep back in, crumpling the skin.

Doing the only thing he could thing of, Dean called out, “Sammy, she said she has no intention of dying today.” Sam paused, but he didn’t turn to look. Offering a shrug to his brother’s back, Dean added, “I don’t think Missouri is the kind of woman who does anything she doesn’t want to.”

“You’re right there,” Sam sighed. Almost infinitesimally, his shoulders dropped. Unable to see his face, Dean couldn’t accurately gauge how his brother was really feeling. All he could do was hope he’d got it right, hope that Sam understood what he was saying, that he believed in Sam’s assessment of the situation. The only indication Sam gave was the ever-so-slight lightening of his tone when he added, walking out of the room, “Cook breakfast, Dean.” 

……………………………….

Hours later, Sam, Dean and Cas were all gathered in the war room, awaiting the buzzer that would alert them to a visitor at the door. Sam was practically vibrating out of his skin, his worry getting greater the later into the evening it got. Dean watched Sam from his chair at the table, gritting his teeth against the metallic scraping noises his brother’s over-eager footsteps created on the grating of the landing.

He’d been up there for the last twenty minutes, ensuring every piece of greenery was off of the landing, even the crispy dry leaves that Dean _liked_ being up there. Sure, it wasn’t very _clean_ , but when he was in a good mood and could come in to step on a crunchy leaf? It made his day.

Leaving his brother to his fussing, Dean turned his head to the side. Cas was perched on the edge of a second chair, fingers folded together on his lap. Dean found himself blinking when he saw that the angel was actually twiddling his thumbs. He’d always thought that that was a thing only done in movies, in books. Yet there Cas was, thumbs rubbing over each other as he fidgeted. Whether he was nervous or anticipatory, Dean didn’t know. Maybe, even, the angel was just bored.

So focused on trying to figure out the angel was Dean, that when the buzzer finally went, it surprised him into jumping. Whipping around, he half-clambered out of his seat, one hand wrapped around the arm of the chair, the other pressing splayed against the glowing surface of the map table.

Above him, Sam was swinging the door open, stepping back to allow Missouri in. Wrapping her cardigan around herself, she crossed the threshold, before pulling Sam into an embrace. Even from where he was standing, Dean could see that it was gentler than usual. Most likely, Missouri had sensed Sam’s pain upon entry into the room, and had adjusted for that. She pulled back after a few moments, though she still held onto his upper arms.

“Stop your fussing, Boy,” she told him, a warm smile spreading across her face. “Stand back and let me look at you.” Sam did as he was told, Dean saw, and couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across his own face. “You’ve gotten taller again, haven’t you?”

“Um… no?” Sam said. Well, more like asked. Dean couldn’t see his face, but he could imagine the confusion spread across it, and he had to laugh. “I don’t think so.”

“No?” Missouri asked, cocking her head to the side. A bright sparkle caught Dean’s eye, and he realised that her earrings had caught the light with the movement. “Then maybe you’re just holding yourself taller.”

Finally letting Sam go, Dean watched as Missouri stepped back a few paces. His brother hovered over her carefully, and she clucked her tongue at him, but didn’t otherwise argue the treatment. Together like that, both Missouri and Sam made their way down the stairs, footsteps clacking against the metal grating of the floor. When they reached the bottom, the sound became a tapping instead, in Missouri’s case, and no sound at all in Sam’s.

With Sam still hovering behind her, Missouri swept deeper into the room and pulled Dean into a hug, much to his surprise. He blinked, chin hooked over her shoulder, her spicy-fruity perfume going straight up his nose. Somehow, despite only having smelled it twice before, it comforted him to smell it again. He pulled back, grinning down at her.

“Nice to see you again, Missouri,” he told her, finding his grin only widening when she snorted at him.

“I see dinner isn’t on the table yet,” Missouri raised an eyebrow, her face taking on a stern expression. Resisting the urge to cower like a chastised boy, Dean held his ground. “What did I tell you, Boy?”

“To have it ready,” Dean recited, then put on his best charm and added, “But I figured you wouldn’t mind having to wait a little while for perfection.”

Missouri snorted again at that, though the sparkle in her eyes told Dean all he needed to know. She was amused, not upset, and he was glad. Somehow, he found himself wanting to please her, not only because she would be able to help Sam out, but because she was a fun person to know, stern and powerful in her own way, and Dean wanted to enjoy her company for himself, too. From the knowing expression spreading its way onto Missouri’s face, Dean could tell she’d heard that thought. Embarrassment brushed at the edge of his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to let the emotion linger.

Instead, he turned to indicate Cas, his brother finally stopping his hovering and coming to rest shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Missouri, following Dean’s gesture, turned and eyed the angel.

No awe crossed her features. A raised eyebrow was the only indication she gave that she even knew what she was looking at, that Cas wasn’t as human as he appeared. Though, Dean had to admit, beyond a human body, Cas didn’t appear very human at all.

“Angel,” Missouri nodded, receiving a nod back from Cas. “I heard your kind weren’t so good to these boys.”

“I’m afraid not,” Cas agreed, rising from the edge of his seat to round the table and face Missouri head on. “Though they have not deserved that.”

“No, they haven’t,” Missouri agreed with gusto, folding her arms across her chest. Still, Dean could see that her face softened while taking in Cas after he had spoken, her eyes simply taking him in, no longer judging him. “But any angel who can see that is alright in my books. I’m Missouri Moseley. I imagine these boys have told you about me.”

“They mentioned you,” Cas nodded, hands tucked by his sides. There, Dean could see that the hem of his coat sleeve was fraying. Irritation shot through him, just a little. How much effort had he put into maintaining the angel’s coat? And there it was, still ragged and rough. “I am Castiel.”

“Castiel,” Missouri repeated, then reached out her hand to shake. Glancing at both him and Sam, Cas raised his own hand awkwardly. Missouri wrapped her fingers around the angel’s hand, still held stiff as a board, and pumped it once. When she let go, Cas stared at his hand, his brow tugging downwards. Now _there_ was an expression Dean could read: confusion. It had him chuckling, just a little. Missouri turned to him, eyes sparkling. “You stop your mocking of your angel, Dean Winchester,” she declared, then spun on her heel, headed deeper into the Bunker. “Now you three boys show me where the kitchen is. I could use something to eat.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Dean nodded, at the same time as Sam let out an ‘of course’. Together, the three of them turned into the Bunker, Missouri following along behind them. “Right this way.”

“Then, after dinner, we’ll see about getting you some help, huh Sam?” Missouri asked, kindness in her tone, but also excitement. Dean wondered if the prospect of working with someone like Sam, someone with a lot of power, was what was giving her that excitement, or if it was something else entirely. Whatever it was, Dean trusted her to have Sam’s best interests at heart, trusted her not to hurt him. “We won’t let your powers ruin you.”

“Thanks,” Dean heard his brother mutter, nerves jangling in his quiet tone. Gently, Dean reached out to squeeze his brother’s shoulder, smiling softly at him when Sam sent an appreciative look his way.

An angel, a hunter and two psychics, they headed towards the kitchen, ready to eat together, and lay the path towards a new, very different future, for all four of them.


	3. Haunted House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having taken a hunt, Dean wants to see if Sam's ghostly powers work. But Sam's not sure that the house is really haunted at all. At least, he can't feel anything...

Haunted House

Dean winced as his footsteps caused the rotting floorboards beneath his feet to creak. Goosebumps were making his skin prickle, his hair standing up on end all over, not just the nape of his neck. Whether or not the house he was in was haunted, it certainly _felt_ like it. The rodent skeletons littered about the floor only added to the air of the place, and he shuddered, harshly.

Behind him, Dean heard his brother’s muffled cursing, saw his shadow moving in the torchlight. It was distorted and malformed, hulking enough to cause a lesser man to weep. As it was, Dean barely contained his surprised cry.

Embarrassed, Dean shrugged it off, before turning to look at Sam. He might not have been good at bitch-facing, but an incredulous eye-brow raise? _That_ he could do.

“Are you _sure_ you’re not getting a vibe or whatever from this place, dude?” Dean asked, swinging his arm holding the torch around wildly. The light glinted off a cracked mirror, temporarily blinding him, and he swore under his breath. “This place is creepy, dude.”

“I’m really not getting anything, Dean,” frustration strangled his brother’s voice, but Dean couldn’t blame him. They were only in the house in the first place because both Missouri and Cas had left them alone in the Bunker. Missouri, because she had work to get back to, but Cas because he thought he wasn’t doing anything to help, so had gone off hunting for leads about Amara or Lucifer on his own. Whenever Cas took matters into his own hands, it always irritated Dean, but he knew that his brother’s tense mood was more from worrying _for_ Cas than about what Cas would do. Sam cleared his throat, drawing Dean’s attention back to him. “Except, you know, a general vibe.”

That piqued Dean’s interest. “Yeah?” he asked, lighting up a little. “What sort of vibe?”

“Like a ‘my hair’s standing on end and I want to leave’ sort of vibe,” his brother shrugged, sending shadows dancing across his face. Flicking his gaze away, Dean tried to shake off how eerie his brother had looked. “Not like ‘a ghost is about to jump out at any minute, I can _feel_ it’ vibe.” 

“Well, maybe you should work on your vibe-o-meter,” Dean decided, wrinkling his nose at whatever dead-thing gunk he had stood in. Something crunched under his foot, but he closed his eyes, refused to look at it. He had _not_ just stepped in a rat corpse. He had _not_. “Or maybe we should give this up as a lost cause. Maybe it’s just a creepy old house full of dead things.”

“With a dead owner,” Sam pointed out in that way little brothers did. Dean barely resisted mocking him in a high pitched voice. “And multiple disappearances linked to it.” Regretfully, Sam swung his flashlight upwards, illuminating a portrait of a very scary looking man. Even when he was alive, Dean was certain he would have been a menace, but dead… “Just because I have powers now, that doesn’t mean we have to focus only on them. We _are_ still hunters, Dean.”

“You always had powers—” Dean began, but cut himself off when a chilling noise echoed throughout the house.

Turning, he shined his torch into his brother’s face. Sam blinked and raised a hand to block the beam of the torch, but behind the shadow that fell over his brother’s face, he could see the panicked realisation there, too.

They had heard a scream.

As one, they spun on their heels and ran, heading back the way they had come. Bursting out into the entrance way, they hooked their hands around the doorframe, used it to spin themselves around, their trajectory straight for the stairs.

Within moments they were pounding up them, ignoring the worrying creaks that suggested they would fall through them at any moment. Raising his shotgun, Dean led the charge, his brother bringing up the rear, using that awkward shuffle-run he always did when trying to defend them from behind and travel fast at the same time.

On the landing, Dean paused and cocked his head, straining his ears, hoping to catch a noise, any noise, that might give him some indication of where the scream had come from. To his horror, a massive crash sounded, along with another terrified cry.

Taking off running again, they flew down the corridor to the left. At the end of it, Dean could see a figure, ghostly, pale, _rotting_. Gagging at the sight, Dean raised his shotgun and fired, salt rounds tearing through the ethereal form, dissolving it before his very eyes.

With the figure out of the way, Dean hurried on. Behind him, he could hear his brother panting loudly around his flashlight, sawed-off in one hand and his other hand fumbling for the salt cannister in his jacket pocket. Slamming through the doorway, Dean was glad of that. Milliseconds behind him, Sam was already bending as he came through the doorway, laying the salt as he went.

Scanning the room, eyes passing over the occupants for the time being, Dean let out a sigh of relief. There was no more entrances, which meant the ghost probably wouldn’t come through. To be safe, he’d get Sam to draw a circle on the floor, but for some reason, even ghosts preferred to use doors than to pass through walls. Perhaps it was a lingering habit from when they were living.

Panting only mildly, Dean finally turned his attention onto the occupants of the room.

Three teenagers were huddling in the middle, two girls and one boy. Wrapped around each other as they were, thick woollen hats pulled down low over their foreheads, it was difficult to make out their features at first. When they seemed to notice that the ghost had stopped howling and throwing things at them – the bookcase against one wall was tipped sideways, propped up only by a decaying antique sofa, and Dean got the feeling the teens had been too busy pissing themselves to do that – they began to look up, teary gazes darting between him and his brother.

Carefully, Dean walked towards them. They cowered back, and it took shining his flashlight over their faces to see their eyes for him to understand what was wrong. Three sets of eyes were pinned on his shotgun. Rolling his eyes, Dean raised the gun towards the ceiling in one hand, then raised the hand holding the flashlight. With his hands raised to show he came in peace, they seemed to relax a little, enough for the smaller of the two girls to start sobbing softly.

“Who are you guys?” Asked the other girl, voice wavering only a little. Suddenly straightening, she brushed her long blonde hair out of her face, flicking it back behind one shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“We could ask you the same question,” Dean pointed out, softening only when his brother said his name quietly. Eyes fixed on the ceiling in exasperation, he said, “I’m Dean, this is my brother Sam. And you are?”

“Isabel,” the blonde one said. “Isabel Parry. Call me Izzy.”

“I’m Jay,” the boy said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Fox.” He nudged the smaller girl, but she was still too busy weeping. “And this is Morgan. Um… Morgan Hill.”

“Alright,” Dean nodded, grimacing when Morgan began sniffling, wiping her nose on the back of her gloved hand. Clearly seeing what Dean was focused on, Jay reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled tissue, though beyond that it seemed unused. Morgan muttered a quiet, hitched thanks, but quickly fell into her soft sobs again. Shaking his head, Dean asked, “What are you doing here?”

“We heard the house was haunted,” Izzy rose from her crouch, putting one hand on her hip as she did so. “Thought we’d check it out.” Blue eyes dragged their way up and down Dean’s form, leaving him feeling distinctly judged. He didn’t like it. “What are you doing out here, old man?”

Opening his mouth to retort, Dean found himself doing nothing but spluttering. Outraged, he tried to form some response, anything, but he found himself coming up blank. Turning to his brother, hoping for sympathy, Dean found none. Sam was just finishing up with his salt circle, extending around the edges of nearly the entire room. From what Dean could tell, while he had been distracted with the kids, Sam had even crawled under the bookcase, to leave salt there. Admiration for his brother’s dedication to his task rose up within, but he shoved it down mercilessly. Brothers that didn’t defend him against mouthy teens didn’t get admiration, they got ignored.

Ignoring Sam would be easier to do, Dean figured, if his brother weren’t so intent on being such a _nice guy_ all the time. Before Dean could say anything, Sam had come to the centre of the room and was kneeling down, trying to distract Morgan from her crying. All that he achieved, Dean noted, was getting the girl to curl her fingers into his jacket, moving to cry into his chest, but still. It was sweet.

Turning his attention back to Izzy, Dean said, “We’re here for the haunting.”

“Aren’t you a little _old_ to be chasing ghost-stories?” Izzy asked, with a ridiculous amount of sass for someone who had just been cowering as an angered spirit came for her. “I’m pretty sure you’d die if you tried to exercise. What’s your diet, mostly burger?”

That stung, particularly because Dean’s diet _was_ mostly burger.

Deciding not to let that pass, Dean retorted, “I’ve been hunting ghosts longer than you’ve been alive, kid.”

“Oh, wow, I’m _so_ _impressed_ ,” Izzy rolled her eyes. It was only when she received a tug to the bottom of her coat, Jay gesturing for her to cut it out frantically, that she stopped. Folding her arms, she pouted out a ‘whatever’, then flounced over to the couch.

“Sorry,” Jay gave a weak smile, pushing himself up from the floor. His eyes were still fixed on Morgan, worry swirling in their brown depths, and Dean wondered if there was something between them. “She’s not usually like that. I don’t know what’s got into her.”

“Probably shock,” Sam suggested, sawed-off discarded to the side of him. His salt cannister was rocking back and forth where it lay, lid open just enough for a few grains of salt to be hissing out with every roll. “It can do weird things to people.”

“Yeah,” Jay nodded, pushing his glasses up his nose again. Flicking his head, he tried to get his dark fringe out of his eyes, before giving up and tucking it under the rim of his mustard-coloured hat. Hat matching Morgan’s gloves? Yeah, there was definitely something there, Dean thought. The kid’s voice brought him out of that thought. “Probably.”

They all fell silent then, nobody having anything to say. Even Sam was silent, letting Morgan go when she’d finally stopped crying and climbed to her feet, brushing her tights off with red cheeks. Dean wanted to tell her not to be embarrassed, that everyone reacted to fear differently, but honestly, he couldn’t bring himself to. If she had broken down crying while they were running instead, she would have been dead by now. Hunting instinct trumped emotional wants.

Instead, they all remained in the room, not talking. Stationed at the door, shotguns in hand, he and his brother stared out, trying to see if the ghost would come to them. So far, there had been absolutely no movement. It was unnerving. Normally, a ghost would have come back by this point. If they knew that people were in their home and they were as prolific at making them ‘disappear’ as this ghost seemed to be, Dean couldn’t work out why it hadn’t happened to them.

Everyone was beginning to get nervy, he knew, everyone except Izzy. Whether or not she was hiding her fear, trying to appear nonchalant and uninterested to him and his brother, or if she was actually unconcerned was none of Dean’s business. It did make him grit his teeth, though. People could very well still die tonight, and there she was, examining the tips of her gloves, perched upon a rotting antique couch like she owned the place. Or, more like she didn’t care _who_ owned the place.

“Excuse me?” Morgan piped up for the first time, voice timid. She had a green beret on, her black hair cut into a bob. She vaguely reminded Dean of Marie, though she was less theatre-chick and more outright nerd. Not that that was necessarily a _bad_ thing. Sammy was a nerd, after all. “What was that thing?”

“A ghost,” Sam answered before Dean could. Licking his lips, Dean just nodded, sharing a confused look with his brother. Relief that no argument arose flooded through him. “Though they usually would have come back by now.” Sam admitted. Canyons dug into his brother’s forehead. “And I _feel_ like something’s off.”

That, at least, got Dean’s attention. It was the first time Sam’s ghost-sensing powers had shown any sign of working all evening.

“Off how?” Jay hedged. Next to him, Morgan began whimpering again. Rolling his eyes, Dean shifted from foot to foot, taking a deep breath. The house smelt musty, like mould and rot. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s like the ghost is in here with… us…” Sam trailed off, focusing on something over Dean’s shoulder. Looking behind him, Dean saw what. Hazel eyes, blackened by the shadows in the room, were fixed on Izzy, realisation bright in them. Keeping his gaze on her, Sam directed his words to Jay, “You said she didn’t normally act like that…?”

“You said it could be shock!” Jay cried, flinching away from Izzy as if she burnt him. Dean didn’t blame the guy. “You said--!”

“Took you long enough,” Izzy cackled, rising from her seat. Too slow to react, Morgan got caught in her grip, screaming as crooked fingers dug into her elbow. “You’re so _slow_ , boys!”

“Let her go!” Jay demanded, reaching out as if he were going to grab Izzy. Knowing how bad an idea that was, Dean stretched forwards, caught his fingers into Jay’s collar and dragged him backwards. “Let my sister go!”

“ _Sister_?” Dean found himself asking, incredulously.

“This is _so_ not the time,” Sam muttered, fingers wrapping themselves around Jay’s other struggling arm.

“Adopted sister,” Jay muttered, distractedly. Attention shifting back to Izzy, or the ghost inside Izzy, Jay practically begged, “ _Little_ sister. Please don’t hurt her.”

“Oh, but I think I will,” When Izzy smiled, her teeth were rotten, cracked and blackened with time. Feeling his stomach lurch, Dean screwed up his nose. That was where the ghost was showing through on her, just as a ghost always showed through. No wonder she hadn’t opened her mouth for the entire time they’d been sitting together, though why she waited as long as she did to pounce, Dean didn’t know. Her voice was terrible and groaning when she said, “It will be so much fun!”

To Dean’s surprise, Morgan seemed to grow a spine at that, scratching out at Izzy. Arms thrown wildly, Dean winced when Morgan’s nails raked down Izzy’s face, gouging lines into her skin. He imagined that the little fashionista wasn’t going to be best pleased when she saw that, though perhaps her being rescued from a near death experience – and they _were_ going to rescue her, Dean wouldn’t have it any other way, let alone Sam – would cool her fury upon discovering them.

Chancing a look at his brother from the corner of his eye, he received an infinitesimal nod, barely even a dip of the chin. Knowing that his brother was on the same page as him, Dean threw the teen in his grip backwards with all his might, Sam mirroring his swing on his right. Jay toppled backwards with a cry, crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

With him out of the way, he and Sam threw themselves forwards, leaping at the same time. It was a move that seemed to surprise the spirit, enough so that it’s grip on Morgan loosened. Still struggling desperately, the girl managed to pull herself free and stagger sideways, leaving the way to Izzy free.

Dean had just about reached her, ready to slam her to the ground and pour salt in her mouth himself, never mind the fact that he wasn’t holding the cannister, when he felt himself hit by an invisible force, shoved backwards and onto his ass. Grinding his teeth, he rolled to his feet, sensing more than seeing his brother doing the same.

Determination in every step, Dean pushed forward again, ignoring the shrieking cackles Izzy’s body was letting out, ignoring the way the lights were flickering, the wind that was whipping up around the room. He and Sam were pushing forwards, him barely having the time to spare to check where the two others were. They appeared safe, huddled in their respective corners. Glad that they were in no immediate danger, Dean focused back on his attack.

Under him, the floorboards seemed to roil. Glancing down, he saw the rug under his feet whipping up in the wind, tangling around his legs. Furious, he let out a growl of a sound, arms outstretched to grab onto Izzy, to pin her in place if he had to. Next to him, Sam appeared to be suffering from the same problem. Except… No, he wasn’t.

To Dean’s surprise, Sam was holding onto his forehead, eyes closed and jaw locked tight. Before him, a space opened up, a pocket of air that was still, the eye of the hurricane. Ignoring Sam’s cry to be careful, to not move, Dean stepped forward, right into that still bubble. Whatever Sam had done, he’d shifted the eye. Dean was standing in it, now. He didn’t like it.

There seemed to be something clawing at his mind, demanding to be let out, all while he wrestled it within. It was like nails scratching down a chalk-board, diamond dragged over glass. It echoed in his ears, causing them to ring, and his eyes were watering continuously. Through the watery haze, he barely saw Izzy as she fell to the ground, a puppet with her strings cut. Rivers ran over his vision, blocking his sight. The screeching in his ears overlaid everything, making it impossible to hear. That didn’t mean Dean didn’t trust what he had to do when familiar hands shoved a sawed-off into his own, then clamped over his mouth, burning with salt.

A feeling in his gut, instinct more than anything else, told him what to do. As the calm in the storm ripped away from him, flying upwards towards one corner, he fired off a round and hit it, then, in quick succession, working on instinct alone, he fired a round towards an urn, resting on the mantle above the fireplace. Behind him, Sam let out a triumphant noise, moving from behind him so quickly that Dean stumbled, barely catching himself before he fell to the floor a second time.

Blinking back into reality, feeling more than a little confused, Dean watched as Sam knelt down on the floor, fingers scrabbling through ash until they located a tiny little bone, a finger bone most likely. Pouring salt over it, Sam held the lighter under it and let it blacken, dark with soot. Dropping it to the floor, he spun at the same time Dean did, both of them fixing their gaze on the furious figure of a man, burning in the centre of the room, yelling and shrieking as he fizzled into oblivion.

Relief flooded Dean’s system and he let out a heavy sigh, slumping tiredly into a slouch.

“What was that, man?” He asked, finally turning to Sam. “That was… crazy.”

Sheepishly, Sam admitted, “I held Josiah in place. You sort of… stepped into him.” Something like horror must have shown on Dean’s face, because Sam hurried to point out, “I did warn you, dude.”

“Yeah, well,” he sniffed, rolling his shoulders as he turned towards Morgan and Jay. “Maybe explain better next time, dude.”

“It helped in the end,” Sam pointed out, drawing level with Dean. “It gave you the gut instinct to ward him off, then shoot what was keeping him tethered here, didn’t it?”

Dean simply sent him a narrow-eyed glare, before turning to the siblings. They had righted themselves, finally, and were huddling together, a groggy-eyed Izzy with them, the two of them casting wary glances around the room. Too tired to inform them that the danger was past, Dean merely gestured to them instead, chuckling exhaustedly to himself when they shuffled nervously towards him.

Clamping a hand on both the siblings’ shoulders, them supporting Izzy under her arms, he left Sam to collect their equipment. Practically frog-marching them out of the building, ignoring the ominous creaking of the stairs, Dean tried to get outside as soon as he possibly could.

Once they were outside, he gave the teens a stern talking-to, one that he was sure his dad had given far better than him, then let them run off back home. Task done, he leaned back against Baby, the back of his head resting against the stinging cold of her roof.

Crunching of gravel underfoot told Dean his brother was waiting nervously beside him. Peeking one eye open, he saw Sam standing there, arms laden with equipment, face a shade too pale, expression a little too close to tears for his liking.

“Sorry,” Sam began, causing Dean to lift his head. “Sorry you sort-of possessed a ghost.”

“Not your fault,” Dean waved him off, feeling a little calmer about the situation now he was out of the house. “You tried to warn me.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, shifting from foot to foot nervously. “I didn’t know what would happen, though. I didn’t know a ghost and a person could co-habit a space without being, you know… a possessor and the possessed.”

“Seriously, Sam, don’t worry about it,” Dean pushed himself forward, rounding the Impala until he reached the trunk. Opening it, he unlatched the false interior and swung the lid off of that, too. Gratefully, Sam smiled at him, then place the weapons in their rightful places. “That might be a useful skill.”

“Mm,” Sam agreed, rubbing his forehead as he pulled back out of the trunk. “Probably one I need more work on.” At Dean’s inquiring look, he explained, “Headache.”

“Bad?” Dean asked, already knowing from the way Sam was moving and holding himself that it wasn’t. With a shake of his head, Sam climbed into the passenger seat. Following suit, Dean settled himself behind the wheel and started the car, saying as he pulled away, “But let me tell you, ghosts minds are buckets full of crazy.”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, “I got the feeling.” He grinned at Dean then, amusement sparkling in his eye. “You don’t even need to possess one to know that.”

“I guess you don’t,” Dean agreed, pushing the speed further once they reached the main road.

It wasn’t far back to the motel, but Dean was tired enough and gross enough – in the enclosed space of the Impala, he could _definitely_ smell the dead rat he _hadn’t_ stepped in earlier, no _way_ – that all he wanted was a shower and then to fall into bed. Maybe the ghost had been right. Maybe he really _was_ getting old.

For a few minutes, they travelled in silence, but something niggled at the back of his mind.

Eventually, he had to ask, “What did Izzy look like, by the way?”

“Huh?” Sam asked, startled out of his dozing against the window. When he faced Dean, there was a red mark where he’d been leaning his forehead against the glass. Repeating his question, Dean waited for an answer. “Oh,” Sam chewed his lip, considering his answer. “I guess it looked like an absence of her, more than anything. Like a big, black emptiness, where she was supposed to be.”

“That’s… kind of weird, man,” Dean decided, eyes fixed staring, more than really watching the road. A thought occurred to him, and he asked, “Do you think that’s what all possessions look like?”

“I don’t know,” honesty flooded Sam’s voice, as well as a tightness. With some effort, his brother visibly shook himself, before turning to Dean with a slight grin. “What I do know, is we need to phone Cas more when we’re worried, instead of taking creepy hunts.”

“Amen to that,” Dean agreed, pressing his foot down on the gas.

Soon, they’d be back in the motel, tucked up in beds that were, frankly, grosser than the haunted house. Still, they’d be warm, safe and sleeping. It wasn’t a bad way to end a hunt, nobody dead but a ghost, with a new skill under their belts. Well, Dean supposed, under Sam’s belt.

With that in mind, Dean hummed Metallica under his breath and sped up just a little more.


	4. A Gathering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the help of a werewolf Sam met before, Dean has made a fun test for his brother's powers. But will Sam get the answers right?

A Gathering

Dean pressed his forehead to the steering wheel, closing his eyes in exhaustion and disappointment both. He’d been in Lebanon again, for the third day that week, trying to find that stupid werewolf guy that Sam had mentioned, the one that they were supposed to be keeping an eye out for. Dean had figured he would be easy to find, what with the spiky hair like he’d come out of the nineties, as Sam had described.

Soon, he was going to have to give it up as a lost cause. Sam was already becoming suspicious, trying to figure out why Dean was spending all day, every day, out in town. As best as he’d figured so far, Dean had a new lady friend. How he wished that were true. Alas, he was trying to hunt a werewolf off of a half-assed description his brother had given him a few weeks ago, and not doing a very good job at that.

Groaning tiredly, Dean peeled his head off of the wheel and started the engine, slowly backing Baby out of her parking spot. Turned awkwardly as he was, reversing with some difficulty – the space was an awkward one, okay? It wasn’t like he didn’t know what he was doing – Dean almost missed the figure who walked right by his car. It was only when he faced forward again that he saw them.

There, meandering along as if he had nothing better to do in the world, Dean saw him. Spiky bleached blond hair, scruffy clothes, hands tucked casually in pockets. It _had_ to be the wolf.

Hurrying more than he should, Dean brought Baby forward again with a jolt, leaving her haphazardly in the space and throwing himself out of the door, not even bothering to shut the engine off. If he were lucky, this interaction would only take a few minutes.

“Louis,” he called, fumbling with the seatbelt that had wrapped itself around his wrist. Hissing curses at it, he managed to de-tangle himself and slam the door, speeding up to the paused figure. “Louis, right?”

The man appeared to throw his head back in exasperation, before turning around with a smile plastered on his face.

“I know the sound of that engine,” he began, voice just a little rough. He sounded like a heavy smoker, but Dean got the feeling it was more to do with his being a werewolf than anything like that. “And since you’re not the tall guy, I’m guessing you’re Big Brother. Am I right?”

“You mean to a sasquatch?” Dean grinned, hoping to share it with the wolf. Louis didn’t look impressed. Shaking his head, Dean continued, “Yeah, yeah. I’m Dean. His brother.”

An unimpressed smile was sent his way, more mocking than anything. Just a little offended, Dean stuck his hand out, waiting for the wolf to shake. He didn’t, leaving Dean standing there awkwardly. After a few tense moments, he gave up the hand-shake as a lost cause, bringing his hand back down by his side.

Nodding at Louis, Dean waited for the wolf to say something. Obviously having nothing to say, Louis simply stared back, grey eyes blinking at Dean with impatient curiosity. Silence fell between them, but that did not mean that the street was silent, not by any means. Distantly, Dean could hear children screaming, running around and having fun. A few cries of tag rang out, along with the wails of a child accusing another of cheating. Even closer, Baby was rumbling still. Sighing, Dean took a few steps backwards and opened the driver’s side door, and turned her off.

“Look, I’m just after a favour,” Dean began, slamming the door again. Louis looked somewhat incredulous, and Dean found he couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t often hunters went to monsters asking for things, except for the monster who was eating people to please die, maybe. Hoping it would help, Dean explained, “For my brother. Sam.”

“And if I don’t agree to it, you’ll kill me?” Louis asked, bravado covering a small waver in his voice. Hell, Dean realised, the werewolf actually thought he would do it. “I guess I accept.”

“Look, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to,” Dean promised, holding his hands up to show he meant no harm. Oddly, Louis wasn’t relaxed by this gesture. “But I think it would really help my brother.”

“Can I hear it, first?” Louis asked, folding his arms over his chest. The movement made his baggy clothes hang off him scruffily, giving him the appearance of a sullen scarecrow. “I’m not in the habit of agreeing to unknown favours. Especially not for hunters.”

Dipping his head in agreement, Dean drew level with the wolf. Louis shifted backwards a little, eyeing Dean warily. Currently unarmed – and by that, he meant he didn’t have a weapon in his _hands_ – Dean found that somewhat rude. Tucking his hands into his jacket pocket only made Louis look warier, so pulling them out he raised them, showed they were empty, and put them on his hips. Then he crossed them. Then he put them back on his hips, before finally dropping them to his sides. Louis’ gaze was making him uncomfortable.

“You’re a werewolf, right?” Dean asked, ignoring the way Louis snapped at him to be quiet and looked around, worrying that someone was walking by. Having already scanned the street multiple times, Dean knew it was deserted. More importantly, nobody would have thought he was talking about a _real_ werewolf. Either they’d think he was crazy, or that the two of them were involved in some kind of role-playing game. Rolling his eyes at the wolf, Dean continued, “You don’t hunt people,” Louis shook his head vehemently at that. “Good. I don’t supposed you know any more monsters that don’t hunt people?”

“Could you… could you not?” Louis asked, leaving Dean to furrow his brows in confusion. Seeing his blank look, Louis hurried to explain to him, “We’re not… _monsters_. We’re just… not human.”

Sighing, Dean dropped his head until he was staring in exasperation at his toes.

“Right,” he agreed, using the tip of his boot to drag a stone across the sidewalk, leaving a white line behind. He traced the letter D, whilst saying, “So you must known another non-human who doesn’t hunt humans, right? The favour is this: can Sam meet them?”

Louis stared at Dean with wide eyes. Then, to Dean’s discomfort, he stared at Dean with narrowed eyes. Finally, having decided that staring was too little to describe his confusion, Louis began mouthing the words Dean had just said to him. It was, in all honesty, one of the most exaggerated expressions of disbelief Dean had ever seen, and yet he had reason to believe it was all genuine. Did Louis ever tone anything down?

“Let your brother – a hunter – meet them?” Louis asked, finally finding his voice. He raised a bushy brow at Dean, eyes still thinned. “Why?”

“Well, you saw for yourself,” Dean shrugged, scuffing his foot through the letter he had traced and smudging it. “Sammy’s a little bit psychic.”

“Very.”

“What?”

“Your brother is very psychic. Even _I_ could sense that, and I’m only a werewolf.”

“Right, anyway,” Dean waved Louis off. He knew his brother was powerful, but it wouldn’t do to go boasting it to all and sundry, would it? Picking up where he left off, Dean said, “Sammy can see non-humans, even when they’re in human form. But, you know, other than werewolves, psychics and angels, we don’t get to meet many other… veggies?”

“Veggies?” Louis asked, that same bushy brow raising. He could really do with some sort of eyebrow care routine, Dean decided, before shaking himself. Talk about chick-flick moments.

“Yeah, like vegetarians,” he explained, making a useless, expansive gesture with his arms. Almost hitting the wolf, Dean backed off a little bit. He didn’t want to give Louis an excuse to bite him, or something, whatever it was wolves did. “People who don’t hunt… people.”

“So what you want,” Louis asked, tone slow, as if he were trying to work out what it was Dean was saying for himself, at the same time. “Is for me to bring non-human hunters to meet your brother so he can… what? See our true faces?”

“Basically, yeah,” Dean nodded, a proud smirk rising to his lips when he nodded sharply.

That hadn’t gone so badly, if he did say so himself. He was just about to leave, rubbing his hands together for a job well-done, when Louis spoke up again.

“Even if I did know people for the job,” Louis drawled, looking at Dean as if he were an idiot, “How am I supposed to swing it, huh?”

“We’ll figure something out,” Dean assured him, slipping his hand into his pocket and pulling out his phone. Holding it out to Louis, he gestured that the wolf should put his number in it.

Giving Dean a wary look, Louis reached out gingerly and took the phone. When nothing happened, he slid the bar across, unlocking it. Moving around so he could look over his shoulder, Dean watched as Louis clicked onto Dean’s contacts, eyes roaming over his most recent calls as he searched for the ‘add contact’ button. To Dean’s surprise, Louis stiffened in shock and let his thumb hover over Garth’s name, before finally adding his own contact.

Just to check, when Dean was handed the phone back, he rang Louis’ number immediately. Blue rang out, the annoying chords causing Dean to grit his teeth, and he raised his eyebrow at the werewolf, feeling his hope for humanity dying just that little bit more. Red rushed to Louis’ cheeks, but beyond that he answered the call, then added Dean’s name into his contacts, or something of the sort. Dean wasn’t watching over his shoulder, not this time.

“Keep in contact,” Dean told him, pointing at him as he backed away to Baby. Louis stayed where he was, vibrant, clashing clothes hanging off of him, spiky hair staying very firmly in place, despite the breeze washing over them both. “Phone me if you can swing it. I’ll set up a meeting place.”

That done, Dean clambered back into the Impala and carefully backed her out of the lot, before throwing her into drive. Satisfied that he’d done the job that he came for, Dean grinned to himself, slapping the steering wheel in excitement.

Knowing he’d have to get it under control, otherwise Sam would start asking questions about why, exactly, he was so happy, Dean headed towards home, already impatient to hear from the werewolf still standing on the sidewalk, staring after Baby.

……………………………………

A few days later, and Dean found himself hopping from foot to foot. Everything was set up for a clearing half-way between Lebanon and the Bunker, with Louis’ guests and Dean’s own guests invited. He himself had only invited a few, namely Castiel, Missouri, Garth and Bess, but the point still stood. Having people on their side, even if it wasn’t many, gave them an advantage, just in case any of the guests decided they were going to turn on both him and Sam and kill them.

Only Missouri was worrying Dean, her not having been trained for combat, but when he’d shared his worry with her, she’d said, “Boy, if you think I don’t know how to protect myself, you are sorely mistaken. Psychics are favourite snacks to some types of wraith.”

That having been said, Missouri had promptly invited herself along, and had gone out early with Garth and Bess to set up the area. Bess had phoned an hour after that, informing Dean that Louis had showed up with a seven guests, two of which were kids, and had given their monster designation. There would be a vampire, a pishtaco, a shifter, a skin-walker and a familiar, sadly on the lookout for an owner, since hers had died tragically in an accident involving an experimental spell gone wrong. Glad to have their species down, Dean had devised the perfect test. Sam would tell him, after the gathering, who was what, giving him ample time to test his skills, and to work out what was what himself.

Sam himself knew about the gathering – Dean didn’t want to spook him by dragging him into a clearing full of monsters with no warning – but he had been panicking all morning. Sam was certain that something was going to go wrong, even though Dean had assured him it wouldn’t, as had Cas and Missouri. When Dean had asked why Sam hadn’t just _looked_ to see what happened, with his powers, Sam had muttered something about not learning to use them, about how the last person who had actually functionally learned how to use clairvoyance was Cassandra, and look what had happened to her. Dean hadn’t remembered a Cassandra from their hunts, so he’d simply stared at Sam and then shrugged, going back to pouring out a mug of not-actually-coffee Cas had left him. It had been difficult work, considering it had appeared to be cemented to the bottom of the mug. 

Together, he and Sam pulled up in Baby. A fair number of cars were parked on the grass at the side of the road, including the one that Missouri, Garth and Bess had taken out, and Dean could hear the muffled sounds of music, even though Baby’s doors.

Sharing a glance, he, Sam and Cas then opened their respective doors and stepped out, feet sinking into dew-dampened grass, the whether just cool enough that it still hadn’t evaporated since that morning.

Putting on a jovial act – Sam was still worrying, Dean noticed, shoulders hunched and expression pinched – he clapped his brother on the shoulder and headed off into the trees. Soon, they opened up into a wide clearing, one that was already filled with laughter and, to Dean’s amusement, a little werewolf girl – Gertie, Dean was certain her name was – playing with a pair of what could only be twins, about her age, with bright ginger hair. Looking up, he figured that they just _had_ to belong to the woman with fiery locks, standing chatting to Missouri.

As Dean walked into the clearing, Sam tagging along just behind him, and Castiel bringing up the rear, the chatter and good-cheer in the clearing seemed to die down. Glancing back at Sam, Dean saw him giving everyone a sheepish smile, looking very much like he wanted the ground to swallow him up and eat him. Not having that, Dean grabbed his elbow and dragged him towards Garth and Bess, who were watching the children, but also talking with a dark-skinned man dressed in a rather fine suit. There was an odd pallor in his cheeks, but other than that, he looked very respectable. 

“Hi, guys,” Dean began, clapping Garth on the shoulder and sharing a friendly smile with Bess. Turning an open expression on the guy, Dean introduced himself, then his brother.

“Thank you for doing this,” Sam added, despite having had no input in the actual creation of the gathering. He reached out and offered his hand for the man to shake, and Dean saw his brother’s sunflower eyes studying him intently, looking more through him than really at him. Sam licked his lips, smiling as he said, “It’s going to be a big help for me. I’m Sam.”

“Jacob,” the guy said, warmth in his voice, despite the wariness with which he held himself. “Jacob Glass.”

With that over, Dean introduced himself and Cas to the man.

After a few moments of watching, Dean felt safe enough with leaving his brother to mingle, especially as the tension was beginning to lift from his broad shoulders, allowing them to drop to a much more reasonable level.

Smiling softly, Dean stepped back and away, heading for the ice-bucket on the picnic table. There, he reached in, shivering against the cold of it, and pulled out a beer.

“Hey, there,” a sultry voice startled him, causing him to knock ice-chips everywhere as he jumped. Trying to shake it off, Dean plastered a friendly smile to his face and turned, surprised to find the redhead behind him. “Libby Hayes. You look like you could use my services.”

Taken aback, Dean found himself saying, “Isn’t this supposed to be a friendly gathering? You know, keeping it PG?”

Rolling her eyes, Libby stepped back and folded her arms, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“I meant my gym services,” her voice was no longer sultry, but rather irritated. Unfolding her arms, she showed off her ring, then gestured to the two red-heads. “I’m a happily married woman.”

“Are you calling me fat?” Dean could have slapped himself. It seemed he’d picked up a case of foot-in-mouth syndrome today.

Before he could salvage the situation, Libby had already turned away and stalked off, heading straight for Louis, who was chatting amiably with Missouri.

Shaking his head, Dean spun back to face the table, picking up the bottle opener from where it was laying and popping the top off his beer. Taking a sip, he sat himself down on the bench, leaning his elbows back against the table and watching the scene.

It was all very pleasant, and Dean was glad he had thought of it, not just for the valuable help it would give his brother – who was still mingling, now talking to a tiny blonde woman, one wearing a collar around her neck. No prizes for guessing what sort of non-human she was – but because it was a nice way to spend time. Briefly, he noted that they’d have to spend more time having family gatherings, him, Sam, Cas, Jody and the girls, Donna, Missouri… Even Garth and Bess would have to come. It would be, he decided, great.

To his surprise, a creaking sound emanated from the bench he was sitting on. That, and the sinking of the bench-seat beneath him, alerted him to the fact that someone had sat down next to him. From the corner of his eye, Dean could see an Asian-American guy sitting next to him, beer held loosely in both hands as he dangled them between his knees.

“Nice gathering you’ve got here,” he said. Letting go of his beer with one hand, he reached out to shake Dean’s. He seemed the most relaxed out of all the guests there, though since he and Sam had started mingling the chatter had picked back up, a nice hum over the sound of the music, which was only sometimes classic rock. “I’m Kian.”

“Dean,” he responded, taking a sip of his beer. The hoppy taste spread across his tongue, warming his mouth just gently. He closed his eyes in contemplation of it. “Sam’s brother.”

“Oh, I know,” the guy grinned, sending a nod to someone in the clearing. When Dean followed his gaze, he saw Sam watching them carefully, hazel eyes sharp as they rested on the both of them. “Everyone’s heard of the Winchesters.” Thoughtfully, the guy took a sip of his beer, before adding, “Seems like they’re moving in new directions now, though.”

“Guess so,” Dean agreed, scanning the clearing again. A laugh rose to his lips as he watched Gertie chasing the two other kids around the clearing with a worm. She was going to be one trouble-maker of a child. Garth and Bess would have their hands full. “My little brother’s changed, so we’re going to have to change with him.”

“We?” Kian asked, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah,” Dean nodded, gesturing with his head towards Castiel. He was speaking with a brunette, one who’s eyes glinted silver if Dean squinted at her just right. Yeah, there was no prizes for guessing which she was, either. “Cas, there. The angel.”

“Ah,” Kian nodded, face serious as if he knew something. Perhaps he did. Dean wasn’t really privy to what monsters spoke about in regard to him, his brother, and their angel. “The third Winchester.”

Humming at that, not bothering to argue it – it was true anyway, wasn’t it? – Dean took another sip of beer. Breathing deeply, he inhaled the smell of wet grass and a cool breeze through the trees, felt the sun beating down on his face. Lazily, he flipped his shades from where they were resting on the top of his head down over his eyes, then leaned his head so it was dropped backwards between his shoulder-blades. Next to him, Kian leaned forwards, propping his elbows on his knees, settling where he was like a dog warming its back in the sun.

It was nice, Dean thought, certainly something they could get used to. Not, he had to add, the worst idea he’d ever had.

Grinning stupidly, Dean shifted in his seat, settling in for a few hours, ready to hear his brother’s conclusion much later.

……………………..

That evening, driving back to the Bunker with classic rock playing, and _only_ classic rock playing, Dean turned to Sam. Without saying anything, he studied his brother’s profile, shadowed as it was in the falling twilight. Sharp-nosed and soft-lipped, his brother continued staring forwards, not saying anything. It was only when Dean cleared his throat that Sam moved, and that was only to startle, softly.

“Yeah?” he asked, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at Dean. “What?”

“So, did you work out who was who?” Dean asked, impatience filling his voice with tense excitement. Next to him, Sam rolled his eyes but grinned a little, nodding his head. “Tell me,” Dean demanded. He’d already gotten the answers from Louis, just to be sure, and he wanted to check if his brother had done a good job. It felt weird to be quizzing him, the way he’d quizzed him when they were kids, but it was a great way for Sammy to learn. Dean remembered that much, at least. Surely it would help now? “Let’s see if you’re right.”

Unable to resist a challenge, any challenge, Sam began, “The Pishtaco was Libby Hayes,” he smirked at Dean then, hazel eyes twinkling, even in the shadows. “You know, the one you upset with your flirting.”

“It was bad flirting,” Cas cut in, surprising Dean. So quiet and still was the angel, Dean had almost forgotten he was in the back seat. “And she _was_ a married woman.”

“So she said,” Dean nodded sagely, before turning his attention back to Sam, though his eyes remained focused on the patch of asphalt Baby’s headlights illuminated. “What about that guy you were talking to, the first one? Jacob?”

“He was the vampire,” Sam had that distant look on his face, the one that told Dean he was casting his mind back into his memory. It was funny, how far away Sam could go when he was thinking. “The blonde girl, Lara Dawson, she was the familiar. It was sad, talking to her. I think she really wants a new witch, you know?”

“Nothing we can do about that, dude,” Dean reminded him, shrugging softly.

From the rustle of clothing, Dean suspected Cas was moving. Confirmation was given when the angel’s hand appeared in his periphery, reaching out to rest on Sam’s shoulder. Instead of finding it awkward, like he had the last time Cas had reached out to touch him, Sam simply reached up and patted Cas’ hand, letting the angel remove it in his own time. Which was, in Dean’s opinion, far too long. Sam had _way_ more tolerance for Cas’ weird behaviour than Dean did, evidenced by the amused smile stretching itself across his brother’s face.

Shaking that off, Dean asked, “And Kian? And the other one, the brunette?”

“Kian was definitely the skin-walker,” Sam decided, though he looked thoughtful. Running a hand through his hair, he explained, “He looked human, even in his soul. But, still, there was something slightly animalistic about him, like he was just a little bit more, I don’t know… feral? Natural? Than other people.”

That, Dean had to admit, made sense. Skin-walkers _were_ human, until they weren’t anymore. It was everyone else who was a person and a monster at the same time. Even if they could control what they were, even if they weren’t evil by any sense of the word, they still weren’t human. But a skin-walker, that wasn’t the same as a shifter, as a vampire. One moment they were human, the next animal, but for the most part, good. It was a rare case that a hunter was called out to deal with a skin-walker. On their part, Dean and his brother had only had one case in all thirty-three years of hunting.

“As for the brunette,” Sam carried on, still casting his mind back, “She was called Amelie Lawrence, I think—”

“She was,” Cas cut in, tone suggesting that he was glad to help where he could. Dean still wasn’t certain if he was reading Cas’ tone right, but… Well, the only way he could get better at that was to practise, right? “She was nice.”

“She was,” Sam agreed, leaning around in his seat to smile at Cas in the dark. Letting his back rest against his seat again, he added to Dean, “She was the shifter.”

Nodding his head, Dean ran through his brother’s answers. They completely matched the list Louis had given him, and Dean found himself pleased. Seeing his brother able to use his powers, even if it were just to see what sort of creature they were dealing with, that was amazing. There could be so many practical applications of this power, if Sam could only hone it fully. Though, Dean supposed, it could also throw them off on a case. If Sam saw a monster, but that monster wasn’t the perpetrator, they’d be chasing after an innocent, leaving the real culprit at loose.

Shrugging, Dean shook that thought off. Maybe they couldn’t use it very effectively for cases, but Sam’s power would still have practical applications. Thinking they were about to fight a human, when really they were about to fight a vampire, was incredibly dangerous. Sam being able to see what they were really fighting, being able to tell them what they were fighting, would at least remove a disadvantage they’d otherwise have. With a sharp jerk of his chin, Dean decided it. Yes, they could absolutely use Sam’s power like that – if that were what Sam wanted.

Settling into the quiet that fell between them, Dean adjusted his grip on the wheel and continued on for the Bunker. They were only a few minutes out, ready to get home and tuck themselves up in bed, sleeping off the exhaustion of the day. Particularly Sam, who had worked himself into a tizzy worrying about what had turned out to be a perfectly nice day, a day in which he’d learned a useful skill, something Sam always liked to do, Dean knew.

Grin stretching his lips, Dean blinked into the lit-up gloom, wondering what else he could do to help his brother’s powers along.


	5. Trust Exercises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam appears to be having difficulty sleeping. Dean comes up with a way to test his powers to distract him, and to hopefully tire him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, 
> 
> I hope you like this chapter. I'm not too sure about it myself, but it does the job of setting up the next one. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy. Please feel free to leave a comment, if you wish. :)

Trust Exercises

Early morning air lay thick and still around the Bunker when Dean hurried through it, making a bee-line from the kitchen to Sam’s bedroom. Behind him, Cas had been left staring, dejection weighing his shoulders down (at least, Dean _thought_ so), but he wasn’t sticking around to answer Cas’ questions about phrases and where they came from. It was _way_ too early in the morning to explain why the phrase ‘the birds and the bees’ had arisen, even if he _had_ known the answer. (He didn’t.)

_That’s what you get_ , Dean thought to himself, fingers curled into the lapels of his own robe as he jogged along, _when you don’t ever sleep. Weird questions_.

Shaking that off, he hurried on, wondering to himself if he should invest in slippers. Sam would tease him mercilessly, he knew, but the floors were cold in the mornings. They were cold all the rest of the time, too, but that was beside the point. He wore shoes, the rest of the time.

Glad to be away from the questioning gaze of their angel, Dean pulled up short at Sam’s door. No sound emanated from behind it, but Dean got the feeling that his brother was still up.

Warm lamplight spread in a fan over the floor, spearing through the grate at the bottom. With the lights still dimmed for the night time hours – it was six in the morning, and the lights only brightened at seven – it made an inviting spread on the tiles, beckoning Dean closer. It also told him, in a very clear statement, that either his brother had been so tired he’d fallen asleep with the light on the previous night, or he was awake.

The sound of pages turning guided Dean towards the second option.

Raising a hand, Dean knocked on the door, grinning when he heard Sam’s surprised cry, quiet in the morning silence, muffled by the stillness of the Bunker air.

Only a few moments passed before shadows danced through the golden light spilling under the door, and then it was swinging inwards, revealing his brother.

Tall as he stood, he still seemed slumped. Black smudges marked the areas under his eyes, making them seem bleary and sunken. Something about the way he held himself, wary, twitchy, told Dean that Sam hadn’t been sleeping enough. He wondered if it was nightmares. It nearly always was.

“You alright?” he asked, glad to have headed straight for Sam’s room now. When Sam got into one of these states, he needed distracting, even if he didn’t realise that was what he needed. “You look sick.”

“Not sick,” Sam argued, pursing his lips. Reaching up, he ran a hand through his hair, pushing tangled strands back from his forehead. “Tired.” He bit his lip, then added, “I’ve been having weird dreams.”

“Weird how?” Dean asked, eyeing his brother warily. If they had to rush off to save lives, Dean was perfectly happy to do that. What he didn’t want was his brother spending the whole drive there panicking about what was to come. “Weird as in prophetic?”

Squinting at him, Sam asked, “Can you… never say that again, please? It sounded… odd.”

Shrugging that away – Sam was bizarre sometimes, and there was nothing Dean could do about that – he just stared at his brother. Sunflower eyes met Dean’s own green ones, blank with their exhaustion. Knowing his brother was trying to work through the haze of tiredness clouding everything, Dean helped jog his memory, asking again in what way the dreams were weird.

“Oh,” Sam furrowed his brow, trying to find a way to describe them, no doubt. “No, not like I’m seeing anything, just… It’s like whispering, I guess. Like someone’s trying to catch my attention.” Pressing his lips together, he studied Dean through drooping lids and added, “They’re just dreams, Dean. Don’t tell me you don’t have weird ones, sometimes.”

Dean had to conceded to that, inviting himself into his brother’s room, muttering about the dream involving Teletubbies and hellhounds he’d had once. He even told his brother how the Teletubbies had been the worst part. A chuckle behind him told Dean that Sam wasn’t mad about him entering his room without permission, so Dean threw himself down on the rumpled sheets, wriggling around until he was in the warm patch. Sighing, he settled in. 

“It’s nice in here,” Dean hummed, tucking his hands behind his head as Sam watched, exasperation blanking his expression. “Doesn’t smell like cheeseburgers.”

“Neither would yours, if you cleared the dirty wrappers out of there!” Sam pointed out, throwing his hands up. “It’s not my job to clean your room for you, Dean.”

“But you do it so well,” sending a charming grin his brother’s way, Dean closed his eyes.

Soft footsteps padded across the floor, but Dean knew he could only hear them because his brother wanted him to. Even in his exhausted state, Sam walked as soft-footed as a predator, a lion or a tiger. Dean had always found that strange, because Sam himself reminded Dean of a dog, loyal and friendly, but also protective to a fault, desperately trying to please his pack, his family.

Next to him, Sam lay down beside him. Resisting the urge to run his fingers through Sam’s hair, ruffling it like his brother would a dog’s fur, Dean peeled one eye open, peeked at his brother out of the corner of it.

Sam was staring upwards, pressing his lips together in a thin line, his hazel gaze following the black crevasses of a crack in the ceiling. He seemed so tired, enough that Dean would have happily laid there and let him sleep, or left him to it, if that were what his brother wanted.

Instead, Sam shifted enough that he could press his bare toes against Dean’s ankle, uncovered as it was by his rucked-up pyjama pants. From the way they pressed against his skin, wriggling with Sam’s unspent energy (Dean was surprised he had any), Dean knew his brother wanted distracting, so that was what he would do.

Licking his lips, Dean rolled towards him, asked, “Are you up to practising your powers right now?”

Eyebrows raised, consideration playing across his expression, Sam eventually decided, “I can try.”

“Good enough,” Dean shrugged, heaving himself upright in the bed. Reluctance to move almost held him fast, but before long he’d mustered up the energy to swing his legs off the side, push himself to standing, and watch as Sam repeated the process on the other side of the bed. Turning towards the door, he explained, “I’ve got an idea.”

To Dean’s surprise, Sam showed no interest in actually knowing what that idea was, content to just follow Dean through the corridors of the Bunker, feet so silent on the tiles that Dean had to glance back at him, just to make sure he was still there.

Eventually, they reached a room further into the maze of tunnels – still unexplored, for the most part, though Dean suspected Sam knew more about them than he was letting on – that Dean had found the previous evening. He’d been looking for a store-room he’d found once before, one that had a very specific part in it, one he needed for fixing Baby. Instead, he’d stumbled into what had looked like an old school gym.

Proudly, Dean grasped hold of the handles to the double-door entrance and threw it open, wincing when he used too much force and the doors bounced off the wall. Hands up, Sam only just caught one side before it hit him in the face.

Smothering his laugh, Dean led his brother inside.

Everywhere, dust lay in a thick blanket, only a few boot-prints revealing where Dean had stood the day before. Vaulting-horses and spare coils of rope were pushed to the outskirts of the room, along with brown-leather mats, patched up in places, sagging in others, all leant lazily against the wall.

Elsewhere on the walls, intricate climbing frames were fixed, rollers allowing them to be pulled out. Ropes hung from the ceiling, ready to be ascended, while weights rested underneath them, which Dean had considered an odd place to store them even the previous day, when he was less rested. In the corner, a desk stood, drawers half open and entirely empty, collecting only the dust-motes that glinted in the light of the lamps glowing from the ceiling.

Spinning, arms thrown wide and palms turned up, Dean asked, “What do you think?”

“I think it’s giving me waking nightmares about gym classes,” Sam replied, frowning down at the grey marks beginning to stain the hems of his pants. “Why are we here?”

“Because of…” Dean gestured for Sam to follow, jogging deeper into the hall, right to the very back corner. There, a mat thicker than the others lay, the sort used to protect people from much higher drops. It was pushed up against one of the climbing frames, locked against the wall as it was. Throwing his hands towards it, Dean declared, “This!”

One single eyebrow raised, Sam turned his gaze between Dean and the mat, making no secret of the fact he wasn’t following.

Finally, he nodded, said, “It’s a very nice mat, Dean.”

“No, you idiot,” nudging him with his elbow, making sure Sam didn’t take offence at the insult, Dean explained, “I can climb up onto the frame and fall backwards. You can try to catch me with your powers. Even if you don’t, I won’t get hurt, falling onto that.”

Understanding dawned on Sam’s face, smoothing his features, and he nodded.

Apprehension tightened the line of Sam’s shoulders, but he gestured for Dean to begin climbing anyway, sending a tight smile Dean’s way.

Excited, Dean scrambled towards the climbing frame, grimacing down at his hands, dirtied from the second they made contact with the metal bars. Wiping them off on his robe, knowing Sam would complain about that when it came time to wash it – his brother didn’t like touching the ‘dead-guy-robe’ at the best of times, let alone when it was dirty – he continued on up the frame.

Before long, Dean had reached a point where, if he fell, he knew he wouldn’t be hurt. The fall should also give his brother enough time to catch him, once he’d gotten some practise in. More, Dean knew it would be exhilarating, leaving him time to whoop if he wanted to. Sure, it might draw Cas to them, but they would be doing an activity which should distract him, forcing his questions about phrases to be forgotten, at least for a little while.

Meeting eyes with his brother, he gave a short, sharp nod and then let go, allowing himself to topple backwards.

A rush of adrenaline flooded his system as he fell, and he couldn’t keep the smile from stretching across his face. Stomach swooping, Dean cried out happily as he dropped, and landed right in the centre of the mat. He regretted it.

Dust rose up in a cloud around him, immediately setting his lungs to convulsing. Eyes watering, he hacked and choked, crawling off the mat as he did so. Nearby, Sam was sneezing into his elbow, dust-induced tears rolling down his cheeks.

“You didn’t clean the mat?” his brother forced out, waving his spare arm around, fanning the dust away from him. “I thought you came in last night.”

“But,” holding up a finger with one hand, wiping at his eyes with the other, Dean pointed out, “I did not think to do that, Sammy.”

“Clearly,” Sam wheezed, though the air was beginning to clear.

Blinking the last of it away, they squinted with eyes irritated into redness at the mat. In the centre of it, a large clean patch was revealed, the leather shiny. Wondering how to clean the rest of the dust off, Dean had an idea.

Stripping out of his robe, he balled it up and crawled back onto the leather surface, wiping the material over the dust. Massive black stains were building up, but Dean didn’t care. His idea was a good one, he knew, but more than that, he actually had a stash of dead-men-robes, something he wouldn’t tell his brother. One was bad enough in Sam’s eyes. He figured he’d find his brother in his room, laughing around a pile of the burning garments if he ever found out Dean had five of them, pilfered from other rooms. He only had so many, so that he could use them while the others were dirty, and he didn’t want to have to go searching through other abandoned rooms for more. 

Task accomplished, Dean shook off his thoughts about dressing gowns and gave a cursory rub-down to the climbing frame bars, taking the robe up with him and dropping it down once he’d cleaned each rung he clambered upon on his journey up there. When he glanced back, Sam’s lip was curled, his nose wrinkled, as he eyed the material with distaste.

_Yeah_ , Dean noted to himself, _there would definitely be a bonfire_.

Calling out his intentions to his brother as a warning, Dean let go of the rungs again, falling back. This time, as he plummeted, he felt something press gently against his back. It wasn’t enough to catch him, or even slow his descent, but it definitely felt like more than wind-resistance. There was something about it, a spark in it – though that spark was far from warm, the opposite really, almost burning with how cold it was – that just spoke of home, of Sam. Dean trusted it, and he relaxed into it, even as he slammed into enfolding leather.

Thumbs up sent Sam’s way, he climbed the frame again, again, again, each time finding Sam’s powers to be working better and better. First, they slowed his fall, then they caught him, and then, after over an hour of trying it, Sam was beginning to lift Dean back up, to place him back on the rung he’d stepped off of. That, Dean knew, would be a useful skill. If anybody fell while on a hunt, Sam could stop it, could bring them back to a ledge, a floor, a tree-branch. Whatever they’d stumbled or flown off the edge of, Sam could bring them back to.

Pleased with his brother’s progress, stomach rumbling loudly, Dean made his way off the mat for the final time that morning.

Glad that he’d decided to call it a day, he stumbled over to his brother, dizziness making his steps a little off-balanced, a little crooked.

“You okay, man?” he asked Sam, who blinked blearily up at him. Whatever spare energy Sam had had in his body, it was exhausted now. “You need anything?”

“Coffee?” Sam asked, giving Dean a tired smile.

Reaching down, Dean offered his hand to his brother. A giant palm engulfed his, and together they worked Sam to his feet, Dean throwing Sam’s arm over his shoulder as he wavered in place.

Kicking himself, knowing he should have kept a better eye on his brother, who had a tendency to over-work himself, Dean helped lead him from the room. Sniffles emanated from his taller form, but Dean couldn’t blame him. No matter how well he’d cleaned the mat, every time he’d fallen, he’d sent up new bursts of motes, all of them dancing and shimmering in the golden-glow of the air.

Sam still sniffling, they reached the far side of the room. Sam was dragging snake-like tracks in the dust, clearly just wanting to sleep, unwilling even to lift his feet. Patting his brother’s shoulder with his free hand, Dean grinned up at him, ready to tease him.

Hazel eyes were barely open, but Sam was smiling softly, that same proud look Dean had always found on his brother’s face whenever he’d learned a new skill. It was one Dean had seen a lot, back when Sam had been a kid. Even hunting skills, once learned, had made Sammy feel accomplished. Dean hoped, now he was learning to use his powers again, he’d see that expression more and more often. It was one he had missed, after all.

At the door, Dean let go of his brother, leaving him to sway in the now-bright corridor. Enough time had passed that the day-lights had come on, illuminating everything clearly.

Just about to hurry back through the room and pick up his robe, Dean paused when a hand shot out, grasped his shoulder.

“If you go back and get that robe,” Sam warned, words slurring together. “I will burn it. And,” he added, much to Dean’s surprise. “I will burn all the other ones, too.”

“You knew about them?” Dean asked, surprise causing his voice to raise in pitch, just a little.

Wide-eyed, he turned to his brother, mouth hanging ever-so-slightly agape.

“Nope,” Sam popped the ‘p’, the corners of his lips turning upwards in… triumph, Dean could only describe it as. “I’d suspected. I know now.”

“You played me, Man!” Dean griped, shaking his head as he moved forward in the corridor, leaving Sam to follow along unsteadily behind him. He wasn’t going to help him along, no way. Little brothers like Sam didn’t get help, not if they were going to be a little bitch like him. Pouting, he turned around, tried to display how hurt he was feeling to his brother. The unadulterated glee on Sam’s face, shining even through the tiredness, made it hard to do anything but grin back at him. “That’s not cool.”

“It’s very cool,” Sam decided, tripping over his own feet. It had been a long time since Dean had seen Sam as tired as he was there, and he got the feeling that it had very little to do with the use of his powers. No, rather, Dean suspected Sam hadn’t been sleeping right, if at all, for days. They would have to talk about his dreams, and soon. Something was obviously bugging him, even if it wasn’t really nightmares. Surprising Dean, Sam reached out, patted his shoulder, then asked, “You know what else is cool?”

Dean raised his brows, turning them on his brother.

“Sleeping,” Sam declared, voice distorting around a yawn. “Sleeping is very cool.”

“That it is,” Dean agreed, patting his brother between the shoulder blades. Steering Sam gently towards his room, he murmured, “And it’s time for all the cool Sammies to have a nap.”

As a testament to how tired Sam was, he didn’t even protest being treated like a little kid. Normally, he could only stand it when he was ill, injured, drugged or dead on his feet. This, Dean knew, was the last option.

Carefully, grinning to himself as his brother dozed off standing up, Dean lead him to his room. There, he gave him a gentle nudge, chuckling as his brother belly-flopped onto the bed. Waking up enough to pull the pillow towards him, wrapping his arms around it as he ground his face into it, Sam made himself comfortable.

For a moment, Dean just watched him, hoping that those bruises under his eyes would decrease soon. He didn’t like seeing Sam suffering, even if it was just from a lack of sleep.

Lifting his head from the pillow, Sam mumbled, “G’night, Dean.”

“It’s morning, bitch,” Dean said fondly, reaching out to brush Sam’s hair back from his forehead. With a hum, Sam leaned into the touch, leaving Dean unable to prevent a smile from climbing onto his face. Shaking his head, he stood up and headed towards the door. In the doorframe, he looked over his shoulder, hummed back to his brother, “Night, Sammy.”

The faint sounds of steady breathing were all the response he got.

Pleased to see that his brother was getting some actual sleep, worrying that it wouldn’t last for long, Dean turned back towards the kitchen. There was something going on with his brother, something not necessarily bad, but a little worrying. Dean was determined to get to the bottom of it.

They would figure out what was causing Sam’s dreams, what was forcing him awake all throughout the night, multiple nights a week, if for no other reason that they couldn’t hunt, couldn’t save people, if Sammy were always on the verge of collapse. Plus, Dean wanted Sam to be happy, and he couldn’t be anything but stressed if he were exhausted all the time.

Resolving himself to asking his brother difficult questions later that day, Dean stepped through the door to the kitchen. Standing in the middle of it was Cas.

Upon seeing Dean, Cas’ face lit up, his mouth opening as a question no doubt rose to his lips. Kicking himself for forgetting about him, Dean spun on his heel, eyes wide and back held straight as he hurried away, Cas’ footsteps following behind him.

_Screw Sam’s sleeping_ , he decided, heading back in that direction. He needed help with these questions.

“Sam!” he called, throwing wary glances over his shoulder at the angel following him. “Sam, Cas needs you!”


	6. Sweet Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is still struggling to sleep. Dean wants to know more about the dreams, and he wants to get his little brother a nap, in that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, 
> 
> This chapter is a little shorter than I normally right, but I hope it doesn't disappoint. This is a lead-in to the next chapter, where we should finally bring in a character I've been wanting to introduce for a while! :) 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy... :)

Sweet Dreams

Dean let out a soft groan when his brother walked into the library, bags under his eyes blacker than pitch, a yawn stretching his mouth wide. It had been the third day that he had seemingly got no sleep since Dean had gone to wake him up because of Cas’ questions. Though, in fairness to Dean, he himself hadn’t woken his brother up, because Sam had already been awake, staring up at the ceiling with blank eyes.

That blank stare was one Dean was used to, by now.

Instead of settling into his usual chair and opening up a book, Sam slumped into the closest one to the doorway he’d entered by, then stared straight ahead. Fingers with ragged nails (broken only from hunting) reached up to rub at his tired eyes, and Dean couldn’t help it: he was thrown back to four years previously, when his brother had been unable to sleep and dying because of it, nails loosening themselves from their beds and falling to the floor one at a time. A sliver of dread shot through him, ice running through his veins.

Worried, Dean rose to his feet, bringing his untouched mug over to his brother. Placing it down in front of Sam – he needed a burst of energy, enough to at least _hear_ what Dean had to say – he stepped back, then threw himself into the chair adjacent to him. Sam blinked slowly, but otherwise paid him no mind.

“Sammy?” Dean prompted, reaching out with the tip of his boot and nudging Sam’s thigh. Very slowly, exhausted eyes turned towards him. “You okay there?”

“Mm,” Sam hummed, quite obviously lying through his teeth. A yawn tried to escape, but Sam stifled it, hiding it behind a massive palm. “Fine.”

“You’ve not been sleeping,” Dean decided, letting the lie slide because even _Sam_ knew he wasn’t getting away with that one, not in the state he was in. “Is it still the dreams?”

“I’m fine,” Sam pressed, leaning forwards in his seat, reaching out for the mug Dean had placed before him. It had long since stopped steaming, Dean having left it to cool and then go cold, unwilling to touch it. Raising it to his lips, but not taking a sip, Sam said in that same dazed tone, eyebrow raised, “See?”

Gesturing with both hands, Dean indicated that Sam should go ahead and drink it, if that was what he wanted. Defiant expression spread across his face, as much as he could look defiant with eyes resembling those of a panda’s, Sam took a sip. His face screwed up, disgust crumpling his features, but with some effort he managed to swallow the portion in his mouth.

“It’s cold,” he complained, turning to Dean with betrayal in his eyes.

“Which you would have noticed, if you were really fine,” Dean pointed out, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back.

“It’s horrible,” Sam added, looking down at the mug still cupped in his hands, inspecting it with a critical eye.

“Hence why I let it get cold,” Dean rocked the chair so it was balancing on its back legs, ignoring his brother’s disapproving look.

When Sam reached out to place the cup down, Dean let the front legs of his chair slam down, creating an echoing crack in the room. Flinching just a little, Sam flopped back again, dangling his arms over the sides of the chair with abandon. Fingers hanging loosely, head tipped back to balance precariously on the thin backrest, Sam looked the picture of exhaustion.

Finally, he rolled his head around to face Dean, studying him with one shadow-smudged eye.

Licking his lips, Sam admitted, “I can’t sleep.” He paused, sighed deeply, then added, “It’s still the dreams.”

Dean didn’t say anything, hoping the silence would prompt Sam into explaining further. During the years they’d spent together, decades even, Dean had learned that pushing Sam was not the way to go. Stubborn as his brother was, mountains would rise and fall before Dean could get him to do something he’d set his mind against.

His silence payed off. 

“There’s a voice,” Sam began, rolling his neck so he could stare up at the ceiling some more. Copying him, Dean inspected the webs, wondering idly if Sam’s powers could be used to clean them with a duster, all the way up there. Shaking that off, he focused back on his brother, who was saying, “—a girl. She’s calling to me. From a distance, it sounds like. She needs help. But I don’t know who she is, or why she needs help. All I know is she’s in pain, and she’s scared.”

Dean stayed silent for a moment more, wondering if that was all there was to the story. When Sam didn’t try to say anything else, Dean gave a slow nod, considering his brother’s words.

It sounded like some sort of psychic thing, if Dean were being honest. They’d have to ask Missouri, of course, because Dean didn’t know anything about psychics for certain, but it sounded to him like Sam was connecting with someone, over a distance. He didn’t blame his brother for not considering that option. Being as sleep-deprived as Sam obviously was – the worst Dean had seen him since Cas broke his wall – he wouldn’t be functioning at his usual genius capacity, but rather lagging behind, like a computer with a weak WiFi connection.

Suggesting his theory to his brother, Dean couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. Upon hearing it, Sammy had raised his head, giving him an adorable furrow-browed look, lips parted ever-so-slightly in surprise. From there, Sam’s expression changed to one that Dean could only really label awe, an expression that always made him feel uncomfortable, reminding him too much of the hero-worship he used to get from the bratty kid he had known.

Shoving his discomfort down, Dean threw himself forward out of the chair, coming to rest by his brother. Patting him on the shoulder, he urged him upright, holding out a hand to steady him when he wobbled.

To his surprise, Sam shoved him off after that, clearly wanting to walk on his own. Knowing how tired Sam must have been, Dean didn’t exactly blame him. Anybody with bags the size of crescent-moons under their eyes was going to be a bit grouchy.

Instead, he simply walked alongside Sam, promising, “We’ll figure it out tomorrow, okay? Right now, you need a nap.”

“I’m not a four year old, Dean,” Sam complained, dragging his feet along.

“Of course not,” he agreed, displaying a cheeky grin to his brother. “You never got naps when you were four. Naps were for three-year-old Sammy.”

Dodging Sam’s uncoordinated palm, inordinately pleased that he had avoided a thwack to his upper arm, Dean danced around his brother, keeping just out of reach. Eventually, with a frustrated groan, Sam gave up on trying to get him, instead shuffling forwards zombie-slow and blinking glassy eyes in Dean’s direction.

Taking pity on him, Dean reached out and ruffled his hair, directing him forwards with a hand on his upper arm.

“Dean,” Sam complained, as they came upon his door. “I can’t sleep.” 

“You need to,” countered Dean, opening the door and allowing his brother to stumble in behind him. Like a good boy, he head straight for the bed, but once he reached it, he merely perched on the edge, fingers curling into the lumpy, uncomfortable mattress. “You’re dead on your feet, Sammy.”

“No, Dean,” for someone as clearly exhausted as Sam was, his exasperated tone was still very obvious. Dean was almost impressed. When he stepped in front of Sam, his brother raised his head and bitch-faced. Hard. “I _can’t_ sleep. Like…” He wet his lips, a haunted expression flickering just behind his eyes as he dropped his gaze from Dean’s. “Like before.”

Not sure how to make it better, Dean just patted Sam’s shoulder. Leaving him on the edge of the bed, Dean tugged the covers out from underneath him, folding them back until there was space for Sam to shuffle under them. Turning back to his brother, Dean tugged at his flannel, spurring Sam into shucking it, then sliding out of his jeans. Satisfied that his brother would be comfortable, wearing only the soft fabrics of his t-shirt and boxers, he patted the pillow, plumping it and gesturing for Sammy to lay back on it simultaneously.

Caring for a tired Sammy was no big deal, especially when there wasn’t something enormous hanging over their heads like the leviathans, so Dean had more time to do it. Sure, they were trying to find Amara, trying to stop her, but ever since she’d taken Lucifer, back in his own rotting vessel, she’d been quiet, and Dean was taking the stretch of silence from her for what it was: a period of relief. The knowledge that she’d start causing havoc again soon hung over him, along with his brother and their angel, but for now, Dean had the time and inclination to look after Sam, so that was what he was going to do.

With a sigh that drew Dean’s attention back to him, Sam did as he was told and lay back on the bed, rolling onto his front so that he could bury his face in the pillow and hug it both at once, the same way he always slept. Fondness swept through Dean as he drew the covers up, glad to see that his brother never changed, not really. All his little habits were still the same, even if his skill-set had expanded somewhat.

Turning to leave, Dean meant to flick off the light-switch. To his surprise, when the lights should have shifted to shadow, they remained on, only dimmed. Glancing behind him, Dean saw Sam had his arm stretched out, his fingers on the switch to his lamp.

“Sam,” he sighed, hand still on the light-switch. “You need to sleep.”

“Then stay,” Sam requested, face angled towards his pillow, as if he suspected Dean wouldn’t. Why Sam thought that was the case, Dean didn’t know. There was almost nothing he wouldn’t do for his brother. Scratch that: there was _nothing_ he wouldn’t do for his brother, no almost about it. Sam’s voice was nearing a whisper when he added, “Please.”

“Sure thing,” keeping his voice upbeat, Dean crossed back towards the bed, toeing off his boots with some difficulty and the help of the desk to keep him balanced. Reaching the bed, his own jeans and flannel crumpled haphazardly on the floor, he hooked back the covers and snagged Sam’s spare pillow, laying back on it with some uncomfortable fidgeting. Sam’s bed really was like rock, comforting only because it had that same old-book and fresh coffee smell that his brother always had, underneath the scent of gun-oil and the tang of blood that never really faded. “Big brothers need naps, too.”

They lapsed into silence at that, though Dean could tell from Sam’s breathing that he wasn’t falling asleep. He was just staring off towards the wall, eyes still wide open, Dean was willing to bet.

Rolling his own eyes, Dean shifted so he was lying on his side, his shoulder tucked just behind him, hoping to find some comfortable way to lie on Sam’s mattress. A dead-man mattress, Dean would have liked to have pointed out, but he got the feeling that a Sam as tired as the one he was dealing with, wouldn’t have appreciated the observation.

They spent some more time like that, his brother tense, unmoving, certainly not relaxing. Sighing heavily, mildly annoyed on his brother’s behalf for how difficult it was to get Sam’s brain to shut down, to let him sleep, he reached out a palm and hooked it around Sam’s arm, tugging Sam until he was lying on his back. Brown hair splayed out over the pillow, he kept looking up, not tearing his eyes away from the broken fan on his ceiling to even glance at Dean.

“Sammy,” Dean murmured eventually. His breaking the silence caught his brother’s attention, turned a wilted sunflower gaze his way. “At least try.”

“She’s hurting, Dean,” Sam explained, “I want to help.”

“I know you do,” Dean assured, blinking sadly at him. That was classic Sammy, destroying himself with guilt he shouldn’t even be feeling. If his psychic powers hadn’t connected him to someone – if that were really what was happening – then he would never know that someone was in pain. The fact that he did, that meant he could help them. “But you can only help her if you’re rested enough to hunt.”

Lips pressed together, so tight they turned bloodless white, Sam didn’t respond. Worrying he’d annoyed his brother, Dean reached out, placed a hand over his brother’s heart. Under his palm, the tired organ beat, a soothing lub-dub, lub-dub, that calmed even Dean. Unknowingly, he began to smooth his fingers gently over Sam’s chest in time with those beats.

“I know,” Sam eventually whispered, finally twisting his neck to face Dean. “I just… I can’t block her out, Dean.”

“Try,” was the only suggestion Dean had for his brother, worried furrow wrinkling his brow. “I’m right here.”

“Yeah, you are,” Sam agreed, nodding softly. Closing his eyes, he let himself relax.

Just as Dean thought he’d fallen asleep, Sam tensed up again, letting out a frustrated huff as he peeled his eyes open. He looked even more disgruntled than before, and Dean made to stop touching him. To his surprise, Sam reached out himself, pinned his hand in place.

“Keep doing that,” Sam told him, hitting his head against the pillow and shutting his eyes. “S’nice.”

At his brother’s request, Dean continued to stroke his fingers carefully up and down, in time with Sam’s giant heart. It took some time, Sam nodding off and waking up again, but eventually he appeared to manage it. From time to time, he’d mutter a slurred ‘let me rest’, followed by an ‘I’ll help you’, but he didn’t wake again.

Eventually, he fell into an exhausted silence, body falling into such stillness that Dean would have thought he were dead, were it not for the steady rise and fall of his chest, easily noticeable through the connection of Dean’s hand on Sam’s chest.

Not wanting to disturb his brother, Dean stayed right where he was, watching him through hooded eyes. It was like what he used to do, when he was sick, or injured. Dean would always stay in the same bed as Sam, keeping watch over him, soothing him into fitful bursts of slumber. This time, the sleep was much longer, much stiller, but exactly what Dean had hoped for.

Letting his own eyes slip closed, Dean hummed softly to himself, scraps of ‘Hey Jude’ that he used to sing when Sam was a baby. Unconscious but not unaware, Sam moved closer, curling into Dean’s side. Lips curling up, Dean breathed in the familiar scent of his brother and drifted off, readying himself for their search the next day, and hopeful rescue after that.

Dean was under no illusions that it wouldn’t be challenging – how were they meant to find a girl with only a psychic dream voice to go on? – but they would do it. For Sam, they would do it. To prove to him that his powers could absolutely be used for good, and to stop the guilt from gnawing away at him. Resolved, Dean dropped off into sleep, having his own very non-psychic dreams about a girl begging them for help, help they were going to give.


	7. Nightmare's End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam has finally got more information about the girl he keeps hearing, so he and Dean go to rescue her. Of course, that's easier said than done, and then they need to work out what to do with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! 
> 
> I know Magda was found in Season 12, and this fic is set in Season 11, but I'm under the impression that she was locked up by her mother for a few years. (Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, as I've not seen the episode in a while). Because of that, I figured (as the Sam in my story is connecting with her) that he would go and get her much earlier, hence him doing it in Season 11. 
> 
> This chapter contains canon-typical violence, and a mild description of wound-care. If that is likely to upset you, I'd recommend skipping this chapter. 
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Please feel free to comment if you wish. :)

Nightmare’s End

Dean peeled his eyelids open and blinked groggily into the darkness. Hay pressed against his cheek, causing his skin to itch, and something pulled and trickled at the back of his head. Gingerly, he reached up to brush his fingers against it, and let out a groaning cry as pain blossomed at the back of his skull. When he looked at his fingertips, they were stained red.

With monumental effort, Dean staggered to his feet, stumbling and tripping towards the entrance to the barn, as fuzzy as it was to him. Moonlight shone through the crack in the door, pooling on the ground, indicating his escape route.

Difficult as it was, Dean made it, curling his stiff fingers around the doors and using what felt like all of his strength, but what was probably very little of it, to push it to the side on its rollers. No longer in the way, the door couldn’t hold Dean up, so he tumbled to his knees, fingers sinking into the grassy mud he landed in.

Frustrated with himself, squinting against the blurriness of his vision, he tried to ignore the insistent banging he could hear. It was like someone had left a child, a pan and a wooden spoon unsupervised, right next to his ear. Wishing it would stop, he rubbed at his temples, still looking out for any sign of movement.

“Sam!” he called, though he could barely hear himself say it. “Sammy?”

Somewhere, Sam had to be there. Dean and Sam had been speaking to Gail Peterson, a highly religious woman, incredibly aware that she had her daughter locked away somewhere, the one she had recently reported had died of pneumonia. Everyone in the town had believed it, though the social worker Beth had been furious, upset that the scarily religious woman had been so against true medical care that she had pretty much _let_ her daughter die. For the most part, she had gotten away with it, too. All she had lost was her respect amongst the town-folks, which was something she very much didn’t need anymore.

Unfortunately for Gail, while Sam had been sleeping only a few days ago, he had connected properly with her daughter, Magda. In that dream, Sam had been able to get a location for the girl, along with a name, and a story. Upon waking, he’d shared it all with Dean, and together they’d rushed off, not even stopping to get Cas. The situation had been too urgent.

Once they had got there, they had tried to investigate discreetly, hiding as new social workers for the Peterson boy, but somehow Gail had learned their true purpose on the farm. While Dean had been checking in the barn – with the wide open doors, it was unlikely Magda was being kept there, but he still had to check – Sam had been checking around the back of the house. Though, Dean had no idea where his brother was anymore, having been hit over the back of the head with something hard enough to draw blood and leave him with a throbbing head-ache.

“Sammy, show yourself,” he slurred, wanting to make a bee-line for the house, but finding himself unable to. His movement could only pass for a bee-line if he were impersonating a very drunk bee. “Where are you?”

In all his yelling, Dean heard voices. It was difficult to tell, over the racket of the crashes in his head, but it sounded like it had come from within the house. Desperate to find his brother and the girl, he followed the confused yelling.

Finding the voices was tricky, but Dean managed it well. Somewhat. He’d actually found the kitchen, but peering through the window he could just make out the blurry shadows of people in the dining room beyond. One appeared to be slumped over, not moving, though with the unfocused quality of his sight, he couldn’t tell if they were breathing.

Dread shot through him. What if it were his brother?

Shaking that thought off – Sammy was formidable enough, but with his psychic powers? He’d be fine, surely – Dean searched desperately for a way in.

Trying the back door, he found it locked. Backing away, growling in frustration, Dean found himself tripping. He sprawled backwards, smacking his head once again. Teeth clenched, he felt the pain burst through him like an explosion, so bad he felt like he might throw up. He must have blacked out for a moment, because when he tuned back into the situation, he could just make out the faint sounds of his brother’s voice, trying to soothe, to calm.

Sitting up, shaking his head, Dean tried to see what he had tripped on in the dark. It was a lump of concrete, laying innocently before him, and he grinned at it. Struggling to his feet again, annoyed by the limp his scraped and strained ankle was forcing him to adopt, he bent down and hefted the concrete into his arms. It was heavy. Dean knew it would do the trick.

Lining himself up with the window a short distance from it, he began swinging the lump of concrete in his arms back and forth, gaining momentum with every pass. Once he suspected he had enough, he let it go, watching as it arced through the air and smashed through the window, landing with the crashing of cascading glass, a waterfall of sound, and the heavy thump-crack of tiles breaking under concrete.

Pleased with himself, Dean let out a woozy grin, then staggered forwards. Shucking his shirt, he wrapped it around his fist, using his covered hand to knock the remaining shards from the frame. Empty of sharp slivers, the newly-made entrance way beckoned him. So focused on it was he, that he didn’t notice the danger until it was too late.

Perched on the counter-top, mustering up the energy and clarity of mind to clamber down, he heard a noise. Looking up with wide eyes, struggling to focus on what he was seeing, Dean gasped and sprang back when he found himself a hair’s breadth from a knife, the cold metal of it almost tickling his nose.

Just catching himself before he fell out of the frame and whacked his head again, Dean clutched at the wood and tried to locate his brother’s familiar form. Looking past the wild-eyed woman, Dean saw a girl dressed in rags, bloody and gaunt, staring at him with terrified dark eyes. Behind her, Sam was hovering, a length of taught rope trailing from one wrist to the arm of a chair, slackening as he worked it off with some haste.

Glad to see Sam and the girl alive with one split-second look, Dean turned his attention back to Gail, who had cocked her head to the side in a way that made her look entirely crazy. With a knife in her grasp, one that she kept readjusting her hold on, one that she kept giving odd looks to, as if she thought Lucifer himself were inhabiting it, she was the immediate danger.

Not wanting to be the knife’s next victim – Dean could tell someone had already fallen to it, the blade dripping red as it was – Dean did the only thing he could think of. He lunged forward, sending an un-coordinated hit sideways, knocking the knife out of his path.

Colliding with Gail, he dragged them both down, sprawling in a heap on the kitchen floor. Gail let out a wounded cry as she landed on the concrete lump, and Dean knew she would have at least mild muscle-damaged from it, tilted to the side as they were from where it was propping up her shoulder.

Blade still in hand, Gail was struggling, flailing mightily and screaming about the Devil, and Devil-worshippers, hitting at Dean with her empty hand as he put all his concentration – which wasn’t very much right then, with as much pain as he was in – into keeping the knife from slicing into him.

“A little help here?” he forced out, panting through the pain. Just as he said it, the knife wrenched itself out of Gail’s hands, flying back towards the doorway. Distracted by the loss of her knife, Gail tried to flip herself under Dean, reaching for the blade with frenzied desperation, furious sobs escaping her mouth. Holding her down, Dean looked up and met Sam’s eyes. Sort of. He might have been looking a little to the left. He wasn’t really sure, and with the way his head was killing him, he didn’t really care. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Sam said, setting the knife on the counter-top. With the use of his powers – telekinesis appeared to come easily to him, nowadays – he brought the rope towards them, uncoiling it from the chair with ease. Straddling Gail’s back, Dean reached for her outstretched arms and pulled them backwards, inwards, until Sam could take over, tying the rope around her wrists. “Are you alright?”

Standing up, reaching a hand out to catch himself on his brother’s shoulder, Dean left Gail where she was on the floor. She was still flipping and bucking, a fish stuck on land, scrambling to find water again, but with her hands restrained and no powers of her own, she was no longer a threat. It was only that knowledge that allowed Dean to relax enough to let Sam check him over.

Surprisingly gentle fingers – Sammy was a big guy, so the amount of care he would show always surprised Dean, somehow – ghosted over the back of his head, and Sam murmured something to him about needing to get an ice-pack on his head. Preferably, he wanted to take Dean to a hospital, but Dean already knew he was going to refuse that.

Back to Sam’s chest, and Sam’s back to Gail, neither of the brothers were paying attention to her.

In the time that they’d ignored her, Gail had managed to worm her way around. Giving a startled cry, Sam staggered back from Dean, leaving him to wobble around in surprise. What was his brother doing?

To his shock, Gail had her teeth sunk into his brother’s ankle, holding on like a rabid dog, even as Sam tried to kick her off. Confused eyes darting between Dean and Gail, Sam grabbed onto the counter, ignoring the glass his hands landed on, and tried desperately to keep his balance.

Not sure how to help short of leaning down and wrenching the woman’s jaw open, Dean stood useless where he was. Luckily, Sam seemed to regain some composure, and before Dean knew it, the woman’s jaw was widening. Without her say, if the look on her face was anything to go by. Sam’s powers had, it seemed, locked her mouth open, though only for long enough for him to extract his leg. With it out of the way, Gail’s mouth slammed closed. Wincing, Dean tried to ignore the crack of a sound it made.

Meanwhile, like a zombie on the scent, Gail continued to try and bite Sam. Luckily, someone seemed to know what to do, because Gail started sliding back across the floor, back towards the girl still standing in the doorway. She had her face screwed up in concentration, a hand pressed to her dirt-blackened forehead, and she burst into heavy pants when Gail finally stopped moving, a few paces back from the boys.

“Thanks,” Sam grimaced at Magda, stepping back towards Gail. Wanting to help, even if he was off-balanced, Dean dragged himself forward and, still in sync with his brother despite his injuries, hooked his hand under one of Gail’s armpits, hauled her up, and dragged her into the dining room, the excess of the rope binding her hands trailing on the floor behind them. Pausing only to pat the psychic girl on the shoulder, Sam huffed out, “You did good.”

Feebly, Dean nodded in agreement, but his body was so tired, so woozy, that he thought it came off as more an exhausted sway than anything.

Luckily, he didn’t have to stay upright for very much longer.

Once they had dragged Gail to a chair – Dean didn’t miss the two bodies in the room, her son and her husband, but there was nothing he could do to help them – and tied her into it, Sam checking and double-checking the ropes to make sure she wouldn’t be escaping, they both turned around. Magda was still watching them, an unreadable expression on her face, but she followed them out of the house when they left.

In the moonlight, by the front door, Magda stood. Even through his pain-induced haziness, Dean could see the way she was trembling, her face turned to the moon. Eyes closed, she let the light kiss her skin, standing with her arms held raised just slightly. Dean suspected that she hadn’t raised them all the way because of the pain she must have been in. Even in the dark, Dean could see the lash-marks on her skin, still weeping and bloody, and he knew they must have burned like fire across her back.

Leaving her to stand like that, Dean tripped his way over to the wall, pressing his hands up against it and using it to guide him into sitting.

The excitement over, Dean was much more focused on the pain of everything. Explosions still burst behind his eyes, cannons still going off right by his ears. Glass shards had slivered into his knees while he had been grappling with Gail, and even that stung. His ankle was still throbbing, the tell-tale stickiness of it indicating that the graze he’d acquired was still leaking intently. Groaning, Dean leaned his head back, taking a deep breath. He’d hoped for the fresh scent of the outside to clear his nose, but all he could smell was blood, sweat and the lingering odour of mouldering hay.

Closing his eyes, Dean tried to ignore the pounding, the aching, and instead rest for a while. He wasn’t worried that he would fall asleep, knowing instinctively that his brother would take care of things. So, with Sam still very much awake and aware, Dean let his eyes slip closed and his consciousness away, trusting his brother to do what needed to be done.

……………………………….

For the second time in a row, Dean found opening his eyes was a chore that took more effort than it should have. Instead of waking up pressed to hay, though, he woke to a musty pillow under his cheek, tightly-wrapped bandages around his knees, ankle and, he suspected, head, and the agonised hisses of a young woman.

Shifting his gaze from the night stand to the other bed in the room, Dean saw why. Perched on the edge of the bed, fingers clenched bloodless-white into a towel clutched to her chest, Magda faced away from Sam. His brother, Dean saw, was busy cleaning out the wounds on her back. No longer in the dark, Dean could see just how bad they were, and counted it as a blessing that the young psychic didn’t have any infections in them.

Sitting up, Dean let out a groan, one that startled both Sam and Magda. Her head flew around, greasy strands of hair flaring out into a fan as she spun to look at him over her shoulder. Sam, meanwhile, just paused in his work before going back to it, obviously trusting Dean not to do anything stupid.

“Hi,” Dean said, breaking the tense silence. “I’m Dean.”

“Magda,” she replied, voice hoarse, before turning back around, lowering her brow until it was facing the floor. “Though _she_ called me the Devil.”

“Gail?” Dean asked. At Magda’s infinitesimal nod, Dean sighed. Hesitantly pulling himself upright, Dean hobbled over until he was sitting next to Magda, carefully keeping his eyes averted from her form. She was already surrounded by two strangers, even if they had helped save her. Dean could let her keep her modesty. “Hey,” Dean held out his hand, palm facing up, offering her comfort. After eyeing it for a few moments, she wrapped her too-thin fingers around it, squeezing sharply with every careful pull through her skin that Sam made with the threaded needle. “You’re not the Devil. She called you that because of what you can do, right? So you’re not the Devil.”

“Sam said that,” whispered the girl, sounding like she was on the verge of tears. “He can do what I can do.”

“That he can,” Dean agreed, letting some good humour enter his voice. It was hard to keep it up, what with the way his head still ached, but for a scared young woman, he’d do it. “Has he told you about any of it?”

Magda shook her head, glancing at Dean out of the corner of her eye. Grinning at her, Dean leaned back, nudging Sam with his elbow. Ignoring his brother’s irritated huff – he had the skill not to hurt Magda while jostled, John had made sure of that – Dean let himself smile wider.

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean encouraged, eyes darting to Magda regularly, checking to make sure he wasn’t scaring her. “Tell us some stories.”

“Like what?” Sam asked, the tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his lips, the way it always did when he was stitching wounds up. Dean had always found it strange, because it happened when he was stitching other people up, and _only_ when he was stitching other people up. Even threading needles through his own skin wouldn’t illicit that response. “I don’t have any good stories.”

“What about when your powers were just coming back, and you didn’t even realise that was what was happening?” Dean ribbed, turning his smile Magda’s way.

Looking unsure, she sent a tiny upturn of her lips back, before turning so her chin rested on her shoulder, her big brown eyes staring at Sam hopefully. Meeting them, Sam let out a huff of a sigh, before beginning to tell his tale. Letting his brother’s voice wash over him, Dean drifted in and out of awareness, only being brought back into the moment when a large hand reached out, pushed his head so it was facing the opposite wall.

“Bandaging,” Sam explained, before Dean could ask what the push had been for, and he kept his eyes averted. Magda deserved some dignity and comfort after her ordeal. There was no way she could avoid having her shirt off while someone stitched and bandaged her up, but they didn’t have to stare at her bare torso while that was being done. After a few more moments in which Sam finished telling the story of discovering his powers – leaving out the emotional upheaval, of course – Sam declared softly, “There. All done.”

“Thank you,” Magda murmured, pulling on the t-shirt Sam handed her. From the smell, Dean could tell it was one of Sam’s, old-books and coffee permeating the air. That was only confirmed when Dean turned back to face Magda, only to find her absolutely swamped in the garment. “You didn’t have to.”

“Don’t be silly,” Sam chided gently, sliding off the opposite side of the bed and rounding it, walking past both Dean and Magda so he could sit on the other side of her. “Of course we did.”

“We did,” Dean confirmed when Magda opened her mouth to argue. “After he had vision-dreams of you, of course we were coming to help.”

“I saw you in danger,” Sam agreed, smiling softly at her. “I couldn’t just leave you. That’s not what we do.”

Magda faced Sam for a few moments. Dean suspected she was searching Sam’s gaze, especially from the way he was keeping his face turned towards her, expression open and friendly. After a few moments, Magda nodded, then shuffled herself sideways until she was pressed up against Sam. Leaning her head on his shoulder, she closed her eyes, a troubled line still present between her dark brows.

Silence stretched between them, Magda clearly unwilling to talk. From the look on Sam’s face, it was clear he was content not to say anything at all, and Dean didn’t know _what_ to say. He didn’t want to accidentally upset an already fragile young woman. No, he would just sit there, waiting for someone else to say something first.

Eventually, Sam was the one to break that silence.

“Do you have any family you know of?” he asked, causing Magda to open her eyes. They stayed fixed on the floor, Dean noticed, and her body tensed enough that Sam must have felt it, pressed up against him as she was. “Anyone you want to go to?”

Licking her lips, fear whiting her face and tightening her features, Magda whispered, “Can’t I stay with you?”

A pained look spread across his brother’s face, and Dean couldn’t blame him. They were going to have to let Magda down. There was absolutely no way she could stay with them, not with Amara hovering over them, a threat they still had to work out how to deal with. Not to mention, with the amount of hunts they went on, they would either have to leave her alone in the Bunker, or take her with them. Either way, she wouldn’t be safe.

Taking one for the team, Sam informed her, “I’m sorry, but no.”

Her expression fell further, and Dean supressed a wince. Disappointment stole across her face, along with a hopelessness. Dean knew she was fearing for her future, scared that it would never get better.

“But,” Sam spoke up, surprising both Dean and Magda. In fact, the girl was so startled that she jumped, almost throwing herself forward off the edge of the bed. “We do know someone you can stay with. We trust her.”

“We do?” Dean asked, mind immediately going to Jody. While he loved the woman, he suspected that putting Magda in a house with two bad-tempered young women, no matter how much he liked them himself, wouldn’t be the best of ideas.

“We do,” Sam confirmed, nodding slowly. Directing his next words towards Magda, he explained, “Her name is Missouri. She’s psychic, too.”

“Like us?” Hope started spreading across Magda’s face, her eyes sparkling in the yellow-tinted light of the room. On Dean’s part, understanding spread through him.

“Sort of like us,” Sam informed her, reaching across his body to squeeze her shoulder reassuringly. “But a little bit different, too.”

Magda began to look more apprehensive than hopeful again, so Dean cut in.

“She’s not telekinetic,” he explained, smiling softly when dark brown eyes turned his way, an enormous amount of sadness and also exhaustion swirling behind them. “She reads minds.”

Again, Magda tensed, directing a frightened look to Sam. Seeing it, his brother sent a soft smile her way, pulling her closer against his side. Ragged fingers raised from where they had been twisting together on her lap, curling into the fabric of Sam’s flannel instead. Clutching at him, she tilted her head, listening. Dean was just glad that his brother was providing some source of comfort to her; he doubted she’d had any for a very long time.

“Don’t worry,” Sam assured, obviously understanding the way she had stiffened. “Missouri doesn’t pry into things you don’t want her to see. She won’t look at your past; she probably won’t _want_ to look at your past.” At Magda’s questioning head-tilt, Sam offered a shrug, jostling her just a little. “It’s your story to tell, not hers to dig out.”

“Sammy’s right,” Dean agreed, slapping his thighs with his palms. At the loud noise, Magda flinched, though she relaxed back into Sam’s hold almost immediately afterwards. “My brother and I, we have quite a past, and she’s not butted into ours yet. Well, except for to tell us off for being stupid.”

“We didn’t visit her in ten years,” Sam pointed out. Unhelpfully, in Dean’s opinion. “She has the right to be annoyed.”

Magda let out a small huff at that, one that Dean suspected was what passed for a laugh in her joyless life. Even if she’d only been held by her mother for a few months, she was so young, and she’d endured so much. Being forced to whip herself? Being told she was the Devil? Being convinced she was evil because of what she could do?

That last one reminded Dean of Sammy, and guilt tore through him like a tsunami. He should have handled the situation better years ago. If he could compare to Gail in any way, even if it were just the mildest of her offences, he had failed in his duties as a big brother.

Shaking those thoughts off, Dean tuned back into what Magda and Sam were saying.

“Just meet her,” Sam told her, not unkindly. “If you don’t like her, we can find someone else. We won’t give up, okay?”

“What if she doesn’t like me?” Magda was plucking at Sam’s flannel, her eyes still focused hard on the floor. “What if nobody likes me?”

“Missouri likes me,” Dean cut in, ducking his head to meet the girl’s eyes. “If she likes me, she can’t do anything _but_ like you.”

“Dean’s right,” Sam agreed, stroking a large palm over the top of her head. Magda leaned into it, and Dean was reminded sharply that she hadn’t felt a friendly touch in months. Sam leaned close, an upturn to his lips, as if he were about to share a secret. “He’s one of the most annoying people on the planet,” he told her. Dean watched as his eyes sparkled when Magda’s face softened into something close to amusement, even if it was tempered by her weariness, her aching sadness. “If Missouri can get along with Dean, she’ll definitely get along with you. Plus, she’s a great teacher.”

Magda bit her lip at that, and Dean wanted to reach out and touch her, place a hand on her shoulder to reassure. He began to do that, but wary, startled eyes darted to him, and Magda shrank back further into Sam. Dropping his hand, Dean pressed his fingers into his thigh, resisting the urge to rub at his temples, trying to get rid of the persistent ache only exacerbated by Magda’s startlement.

He couldn’t blame Magda for her fear; he had been the one she had watched fling himself at her mother, after all, bloody and furious. It must have been quite the sight. 

Instead, Dean hurried to reassure, “You don’t have to learn how to use your powers if you don’t want.”

“Only to control them,” Sam agreed, sending a soft smile her way. “Just so you don’t hurt anyone with them.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Magda agreed, tucking her chin against her chest. Not looking at Sam, she asked, “Have _you_ accidentally hurt anyone with your powers?”

A look of immense guilt overcame Sam’s face, one that Dean couldn’t bear to look at. Didn’t Sam know that he _hadn’t_? Sure, he might have accidentally left some of the people possessed by demons dead, back when he had been drinking blood, but that wasn’t necessarily his fault. Even during exorcisms, the hosts could die. No, Sam had been trying to find ways to save people, even back while he was addicted to a mind-altering substance.

Jumping in, knowing his brother needed to hear it, Dean said, “No. He hasn’t.”

Surprise smoothed Sam’s expression, leaving it blank as he turned his face to Dean, but he didn’t contradict him. Dean suspected that was more to do with not wanting to start a fight, than because he believed it, but he counted it as a victory all the same.

“And Missouri taught you?” Magda asked, jolting Dean back to the situation at hand. When he looked at her, worry was crumpling her brow.

“She still teaches me,” Sam chuckled, patting the hand that was curled into his shirt. “She knows what she’s doing.”

A pause fell between them all, Magda chewing her bottom lip as she considered it. Moments passed, Dean becoming impatient, wondering what her answer was going to be. Finally, a nod was given, small and unsure, but there.

“Okay,” Magda agreed, voice wavering. Dean watched as Sam gave her a brief squeeze in comfort. “Okay, I’ll meet her.”

“Good,” Sam hummed, finally peeling himself away from her side. Leaning back so he could look at her face, he asked, “Are you ready to sleep?”

Magda gave a dubious look to both his brother and him, but eventually she bowed her head, said, “I’ll try.”

Pleased, Sam stood, told her she could have the bed Dean had woken up on. It was the one furthest from the door, so Dean wasn’t surprised his brother was offering it to her.

As Sam tried to persuade her that it was okay for her to have the bed all to herself, that neither of them minded, and that she wasn’t going to sleep on the floor, Dean stood from where he sat, peeling the covers back. Slipping into the bed, he made sure he was on the side closest to the door, leaving space for Sam to slide in beside him, in the middle of the room, behind Dean’s defence, but in front of Magda.

Happy with the sleeping arrangements, headache still thumping in his head, a hammer inside his skull, Dean found himself drifting off with relative ease. Even though he could tell from Magda’s breathing that she wasn’t sleeping, and from Sam’s very obvious studying of her – he was still too wired to be sleeping, and his face was turned in Magda’s direction – that _he_ wasn’t sleeping, Dean was well on his way. They had had a long day, after all.

Eyes slipping closed, breathing evening out, Dean felt himself smiling, glad that they had gone to Missouri all those months ago, when Sam had found out about his powers. They needed the woman now, for more reasons than one, and Dean just knew she’d be perfect for taking care of Magda. What that girl needed was stability and care. The Winchesters could only provide one of those things, Dean knew, even if he knew Sam could provide it in abundance.

No, Magda would be safer with Missouri, and Dean couldn’t wait to introduce them, knowing he and his brother had saved a young woman from evil, and given her the space and care she needed to develop into someone _wonderful_.


	8. Gifts and Guessing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam has actually requested a type of training with his powers, which Dean and Cas are very happy to help him with. The problem is, Dean can't figure out what it is Sam wants to use this skill-set for. Until he does.

Gifts and Guessing

Dean waited as patiently as it was possible for someone like him to wait. Which meant, of course, that he was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet in the gym, hitting a punching bag, waiting for Castiel to come back home to the Bunker. Elsewhere in the warren of rooms, Sam was busy researching, as was his tendency, but Dean couldn’t bring himself to be so still, especially not when they were planning a training session at Sam’s request.

Sam had put it to them a few weeks beforehand, on their arrival back to the Bunker. He’d been asking Dean while they had walked in, only to find that Cas had left in some point between them going to rescue Magda and them dropping her off with Missouri. They had both been feeling fairly upbeat, glad to see the way Magda and Missouri had got along so well, so to come home to find Cas missing, a badly scribbled note the only trace of him on the counter, had been disheartening. Dean supposed they couldn’t blame him, though; they had left without telling him, too.

Now, they were simply waiting for the angel to return, items Sam had requested in tow, a phone-call having alerted Cas to the need for them. It had taken the angel a few days to collect each one, and from phone-calls that both he and his brother had had with the angel, Dean knew that he’d teamed up with Claire at least twice in getting them. Dean hadn’t been particularly apprehensive about the hunts, as they had been basic enough, the sort John would have got him and his brother doing when they were still teenagers, and he trusted that Cas would look out for Claire.

Still, that didn’t mean that Dean didn’t eagerly await Cas’ arrival. It would be good to see his best friend again, a brother if not a _brother_ (Cas was the person he was closest to in the world after Sammy, but Sammy _always_ came first. Always.), and Dean knew Sam would be happier when Cas was somewhere he could keep an eye on. For some reason, Sam had taken it upon himself to watch out for the angel, despite the fact that he was an _angel_ , and very little could actually kill him, especially when it came to ghosts and curses.

Shaking his head to clear it, trying to focus back into the reality he was in, the one in which Cas wasn’t home yet, Dean returned to hitting the punching bag, ignoring the ache making itself known in his knuckles underneath the bandage padding he’d wrapped around them.

So focused on his punching was he, Dean barely noticed when a figure entered the room. Movement out of the corner of his eye made him jump, spinning into a defensive stance, only for him to throw his shoulders back in irritation when he saw who it was.

Scowling, he asked, “What do you want?”

“Nice, Dean,” Sam replied, bitch-facing at him. Folding his arms across his chest, he complained, “Most people say ‘hello’, you know?”

“Whatever,” Dean waved him off, beginning to unwind the bandages from around his hands. As he revealed his skin, he saw his knuckles were purpling with the faintest hints of bruising, but beyond that, they were fine. “I remembered to wrap my hands this time.”

“I see that,” Sam nodded, his ever-changing eyes fixed to where Dean was still fiddling with the long strips of cotton. A mildly approving look flickered across his face, and Dean held back a wince. He knew he had upset his brother the last time he’d been at the punching bag, a time when he’d been too angry to take precautions, had stormed to the practice bag and kept punching and punching until his skin split, blood welling up and spilling over. This time though, he hadn’t been angry, had had the time to think it through. Sam drew him away from the memory, explaining, “That’s not what I came in for, though. Cas is back.”

“Cas is back?” Dean asked, feeling the corners of his mouth tilting upwards without his permission. “How is he?”

“I don’t know,” Sam shrugged, leaning against the wall by the doorframe. He looked relaxed, oddly sure of himself. Dean suspected it was because they had just recently helped a young girl out of a bad situation, and that ever-present burden of guilt hanging over his brother was lightened for once. A grin stretched across Sam’s face, a conspirator’s look dancing in his eyes. “He’s still trying to manoeuvre that hunk of junk he calls a car into the garage.”

Pointing a warning finger at his brother, Dean said, “If he hurts Baby…”

“I know, I know,” holding his hands up in surrender, Sam let out a laugh. “That’s why I’m telling you. You might want to go and supervise.”

“That, I will, Sammy. That, I will.” With that, Dean strode out of the room, patting his brother on the shoulder as he passed him.

The ever-present musty books and coffee smell was there, though the coffee was much stronger than usual. Eyes sliding over his brother as he passed, Dean realised that Sam had a few splotches of brown staining his blue and white flannel, marks from where he’d spilled his coffee in his distracted, book-induced haze.

Shaking his head, Dean continued on past, intent on getting to the garage before any damage could be done to his poor, poor Impala.

………………………………………

A few hours later, after Dean had had to throw himself in between Baby and Cas’ crappy car, they all sat in the dungeon, legs criss-crossed on the floor. Curse boxes were piled around them, stacked near Cas and Dean, with Sam sitting across from them. A slightly apprehensive look was on his face, and he seemed a bit twitchy to be near so many cursed and haunted items, but Dean couldn’t blame him. _He_ wasn’t happy to be near so many cursed and haunted items, either. Only Cas appeared unbothered. Dean was left caught between thinking him lucky, and thinking him a fool. 

Ignoring that thought, Dean lifted the first box from the pile, sliding it towards Sam with a scraping noise like a knife over stone. Gritting his teeth against the grinding sound, Dean watched as Sam flipped open the latches of the case, reaching inside with gloved hands to take the item out. The gloves had been Sam’s idea; apparently, he hadn’t been super psyched about touching cursed and haunted items without protection, and Dean had agreed. Though, when Sam had come out with gardening gloves on, Dean had had to laugh. Where had he even _found_ them?

Putting that question to the side for the moment, Dean eyed the vase Sam had placed before him on the floor warily. Sam had his eyes closed, hands hovering over the item, a canyon between his brows.

With lips pinched thin, white, Sam finally declared, “This one is cursed.”

“Correct,” Cas nodded, deep voice startling Dean a little. He’d been drawn to the vase more than he’d realised, all his attention settling on it. Cas added, “An art student wanted his work to have the highest grade, so he enchanted it. Claire and I had to stop it from getting any more victims.”

“Victims?” Dean asked, curious as to just how the thing could kill people. When he looked at the vase again, Cas’ answer faded into the background, inconsequential.

“It made people stare at it,” Cas’ voice was buzzing in his ears, his eyes fixed on the vase design. Looking at the abstract swirls, Dean was sure he saw a flash of a soft grin here, a deep dimple there, and a sunflower gaze warm and bright. “I wasn’t sure, but I think it made people see something they loved. It didn’t work on me, but other people became so transfixed they stayed staring at it until they fell down stairs, walked in front of cars…”

“That’s cool,” Dean waved his hand lazily at Cas, still staring at the height of the figure in the swirls, the figure laughing so hard he was clutching his belly, then moving wickedly fast, throwing a punch here, kicking a soccer ball there. “Real cool, Cas.”

“…Okay,” Sam decided, and Dean looked up at him. A face more familiar to him than his own blinked back at him, a worried vee between his eyebrows, a tightness to his lips that alarmed Dean. What was wrong? Gingerly, Sam picked the vase up and locked it back in the box, sliding the clasps back in place with a loud snap. “I think that’s never coming out again.”

“But it was so nice,” Dean whined, surprising himself. “It reminded me of something. I just can’t figure out what.”

“No, Dean,” Sam shook his head, a sorrowful expression on his face. “It wasn’t real, whatever you were seeing. Sorry.”

“I took a photo of it,” Cas chimed in, pulling out his cell. With deft fingers, he unlocked it and clicked on the picture, bringing it up and displaying it to Dean. He recoiled with a wrinkled nose, narrowing his eyes at the angel. “Claire says the spell didn’t work in a photo.” Dean sent raised eyebrows his way. How could he not tell the difference? “I can’t see anything when I look at it. Enchantments don’t work on angels.”

“Or psychics, apparently,” Sam chimed in, setting the box to the side. “Dude’s art sucked.”

Dean had to agree. When he had been looking at the cursed item, he had been drawn to it, moved by what he could see in the swirling abstract shapes. Now, staring at the photo, he felt like an idiot.

The vase was misshapen, lopsided and evidently needing help to stay upright, propped in position by a metal wire. The colours chosen for the design were clashing. Vibrant purples, oranges and greens swirled together, kind of like Daphne from Scooby-Doo, except Daphne had been his childhood character crush, while the vase was more… well… doughy, in all honesty. Worse, the paint hadn’t even been spread evenly across it, parts of the clay still visible underneath. All in all, the finished affect was an abomination, and Dean had to wonder how the creator had ever become an art student at all.

Grumpily knocking the angel’s arm down, pushing the hand holding the cell into Cas’ lap, Dean reached for another case, sending it towards his brother.

Once again, Sam opened it. When he did, a nasty odour began permeating the air, seeping from the barely-cracked curse-box and straight up Dean’s nose. Turning a horrified look Cas’ way, Dean waved a hand in front of him, holding in a cough as he tried to find some fresh air to breathe. The cough tickled at the back of his throat, demanding to be let out, and he almost did as it asked, until Sam let out a dismayed cry.

“What?” Dean asked, trying to peer over the lid. “What is it?”

“Cursed,” Sam admitted, slamming the lid down. The smell did not disappear. “And haunted.”

Turning betrayed eyes on Cas, Sam shook his head. Wanting to know why Sam looked so disgusted, Dean leaned over and snagged the box, preparing himself for the bad smell when he unlatched it.

Carefully, he lifted the lid, only to drop it back down and slam the latches shut in horror once he saw what was inside.

“What?” Dean asked, waving the smell of death away. Fixing a second betrayed look on the angel, Dean shook his head, asked simply, “Cas, _why_?”

“It was a simple hunt,” Cas told them, sounding somewhat confused, like he couldn’t understand why they were upset. Dean made a mental note to get his brother to have words with the angel about what was acceptable to put in a box and show to your friends. “But one I don’t think you have dealt with before.”

“No,” Sam agreed, shaking his head. “It is different, I’ll give you that.”

“What is?” Dean asked, tone becoming more gravelly in his frustration. Taking a deep breath, he shoved his irritation down. There would be no use in getting angry because his brother had figured something out faster than he had. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“A witch, again,” Cas explained, shaking his head. The faintest traces of a pout ghosted upon his lips, and Dean couldn’t help the fascination that rose up whenever he saw evidence of Cas’ emotions, as rarely as they were displayed openly on his face. “I do not know why so many people insist upon becoming witches.”

“They’re not so bad, most of the time,” Sam pointed out, much to Dean’s disagreement. No matter how Dean’s stance on psychics had changed, he wasn’t changing his view of witches. He disliked them immensely. Even Rowena, as helpful as she could be from time to time, was infuriating, and Dean hated the way she insisted on flirting with his brother, and the way she called him Samuel. Sam wouldn’t even let _Dean_ call him Samuel. Oblivious to Dean’s internal rant, Sam continued, “Only this one seemed to want to make ghosts of animals.”

“She enchanted rats to tie their energies to this world,” Cas continued, eyes wide in that bewildered expression he wore often, the one Dean read as Cas’ complete confusion and despair at the human race. From what he was hearing, Dean couldn’t blame the guy. “This wouldn’t have been a problem, were it not for the fact that their energies became vengeful after they were killed. They were attacking any human that shooed them away with brooms. Henry Martin even got eaten to death.”

Letting go Cas’ casual referral to someone they had never met – the angel did that often, talking to them about people as if they would have any idea who he was speaking about – Dean shuddered. Being eaten to death by ghost rats sounded awful, especially as they would have been invisible, ethereal and impossible to get rid of once they were crawling on a person, unless said person rolled in salt.

“Great,” Dean nodded, wrinkling his nose. “Gross,” he added, feeling it needed to be said. Then, with a disgusted expression, nose still wrinkling at the faint traces of death on the air, underneath Cas’ ozone and thunder smell, and Sam’s coffee and ancient library smell, he pushed the case holding the half-decayed remains of a rat to the side. “Please, Cas, never bring a rotting corpse back to us again.”

“Yeah,” Sam backed him up, turning an open expression the angel’s way, those puppy-dog eyes working full-time. “That was…” Sam shuddered, clearly at a loss for words. “Just... please don’t.”

Deciding to help his brother out, Dean added, “Friends don’t bring their friends dead animals in boxes, Man.”

A cross between a very, very mildly guilty and a very, very mildly perturbed expression flickered across Cas’ face, but it was so mild and so merged that Dean honestly couldn’t read it. He suspected Sam could – Sammy always seemed to be able to read the angel’s expressions – but there was no way he could ask his brother what the angel was thinking, not with the angel right in the room. Cas might have been weird, altogether odd, in fact, but he got offended just as much as other people got offended, even if it wasn’t necessarily by the same sort of things.

Nodding slowly, as if the matter was cleared, Dean reached out for another box, sliding it towards Sam. It scraped over the stone, a horrible noise arising from the abused metal, and Sam sent him an incredibly displeased look.

Shaking his head, Sam turned his attention to the box in front of him, unlatching it the same as both the previous boxes. He didn’t even have to take the broken stone brick out of the box before he’d come to a decision, his gloved hands hovering over it.

“Haunted,” he mumbled, his voice thick, almost breaking on a sob. “This one is haunted.”

To Dean’s horror, he could see the tell-tale shine in his brother’s fox-like eyes that suggested tears were about to fall. Not having any better recourse, Dean reached forward and slammed the lid to the box down, latching it shut, his bare hands glancing over the box. It wasn’t the wisest of ideas he’d ever had, but it appeared to do the job of distracting his suddenly distraught brother.

“Dean!” Sam cried, voice still thick, but much less closer to breaking. The wobble that had been in it previously wasn’t there anymore, though from the way he swallowed, Dean could tell he still had a lump in his throat. “Don’t do that! Cursed items can still be dangerous when the box is unlatched. You shouldn’t touch it.”

Unrepentantly, Dean shrugged, leaning back into his chosen spot on the floor. Glad the stone had warmed where he had been sitting, he readjusted his position, hoping to get somewhat comfortable. There didn’t appear to be a way to sit that accomplished what he hoped for. Sighing, accepting that stone was not nice to sit on for long periods of time, Dean settled in and waited for the pins and needles to start up in his legs, fuzzy and annoying.

“That was so sad,” Sam muttered to himself, fingers brushing gently against the painted wards on the box. “She was so sad.”

“What happened to her?” Dean asked, wondering whether his brother or the angel was going to speak first. “Do you know?”

Sam held up a hand, stopping Cas with his mouth open, the beginnings of words welling up behind his lips.

Licking his bottom lip and closing his eyes, Sam said, “Her whole family died in some sort of natural disaster. She was the last one left. She watched it happen, unable to stop it, and then she died, too.”

“The remains of her house were disturbed,” Cas explained, shuffling around until he could put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. His brother leaned into it, seeking comfort. Dean bit back his jealousy; Sam could absolutely be comforted by Cas. Still, Dean wished he had reached to reassure his brother first. “And her along with it. I did not realise she was so sad. Her hauntings were limited to staring around her, but a ghostly figure was scaring people, so I went to have a look.”

“That’s okay,” Sam reassured, reaching up to squeeze the angel’s wrist. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Before Cas could argue it – Dean knew the angel could guilt himself _almost_ as well as his brother could – Dean told him, “Sam’s right.”

Giving a weak smile to the angel, Sam patted the back of Cas’ hand where it rested against his shoulder, then gently removed it. Despite his brother’s saddened emotional state, Dean couldn’t help but grin at that. Even now, Cas was being weird about his physical contact with Sammy, and Sam was doing his best to humour him.

Attention back on his brother, Dean watched as Sam gathered himself, very clearly shoving the shared sadness back down. Mustering himself, he put her box aside, lining it up very carefully with the other two boxes, avoiding touching the one that had held the remains of a rat in it. Impatiently, he gestured for the next box, and Dean only hesitated a little when he handed it over. His brother was a grown man, and knew what he was capable of, after all.

Doing as requested, Dean settled into his uncomfortable seat and massaged his thighs, knowing they were going to be there for a while. Still, if it helped Sam in a way he wanted to be helped, Dean didn’t mind doing it.

Sam’s powers needed developing, and Dean was glad to see his brother taking such an interest in doing so, though he got the feeling that there was going to be a reason for it, and he suspected that the reason wasn’t a good one. Not, he argued with his mental self (the one that still railed against the use of psychic powers, the one he’d successfully suppressed deep inside for the most part), because Sammy was going to use them for evil, but because what Sammy wanted to do with them was going to make his brother very, very sad.

Sighing, Dean leaned back on his palms, watching as his brother made his decisions and practised his powers, hoping that he could comfort his brother when the time came.

…………………………

That evening, Dean found himself sitting in the kitchen, checking through the local gazette. Normally, they found nothing of note in it, but it never hurt to check. After all, Lebanon was their town, and they ought to protect it.

Scuffing sounds behind him caused Dean to turn, revealing his brother standing in the doorway, shadowed in the dim glow. He was biting his lip, fingers curled tightly around the doorframe, so Dean set the gazette aside, giving his brother his full attention.

When Sam didn’t say anything, Dean asked, “Sammy?”

“Dean,” Sam closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against the doorframe, then admitted, voice small, “Dean, I want to go to Palo Alto.”

_Ah_ , Dean thought, _there it is. That’s what’s going to make him sad_.

Sam continued, the strain of self-loathing piercing his voice. “There’s something I have to check.”


	9. Paying Visits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam has gone to California, to check if Jess is still hanging around. Dean watches over his brother, hoping that the trip will bring more good to Sam than it does bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, 
> 
> I meant to update last night, but I was so busy I forgot (and by busy, I mean I fell asleep immediately after eating dinner). Anyway, this is the chapter here now. 
> 
> I'm now going to be cutting my updates down to Sundays only, because I am moving off of the small island I live on and into a big city. It's going to be a big change, and I'm going to be very busy, so I won't have as much time to write. So, as I say, Sunday updates from now on! :) 
> 
> Now, that's enough of me rambling on. I hope you like this chapter. Please feel free to comment if you wish! :)

Paying Visits

For the second time that day, Dean pulled Baby into a parking space near the cemetery. They had tried to visit earlier, but because it was the anniversary of Jess’ death, the grave had been surrounded by a fair number of people, despite it being eleven years later. It amazed Dean, to see someone have quite so many visitors so many years down the line.

That was nothing to do with his view of Jess – he’d met her only once, so he hadn’t got a good impression of her, but if Sam had picked her, she _must_ have been amazing, right? – but simply to do with anniversaries in the hunter world. The only time people paid a hunter true respect was right after they had died, and only if that hunter had connections. Anniversaries weren’t recognised often amongst their kind.

Most of the time, those who killed monsters for a living (not that it was actually very profitable) were too busy hunting on the day a friend had died. Monsters, human or non-human, didn’t take a day off so lost friends and family could be remembered. Besides, those lost friends and family would most likely want those remaining to continue the hunt. All that happened on an anniversary in Dean and Sam’s world, was that, if they weren’t too injured, they might have a beer for that lost friend. They might have a beer anyway, though, so Dean wouldn’t exactly count it as special.

Now, though, Dean, Sam and Cas were visiting the cemetery under the cover of darkness, hoping to stand at Jessica Moore’s grave and say goodbye. They had already checked Sam’s old apartment, and other than the black taint of Yellow Eyes, there had been no trace of Jess. Cas had even checked, just to make sure, though he had pointed out that it wouldn’t be wise to doubt Sam’s powers. This would be something Sam was particularly in tune with, and Dean was inclined to agree. After all, Sam had confessed once that he had planned on asking Jessica to marry him.

Hopping out the car, Dean plucked his shirt away from his skin. Even under the shade of the night, it was still hot and humid out, uncomfortable in a way Dean didn’t enjoy. Across the Impala from him, Sam also looked uncomfortable, though Dean suspected it had little to do with the sweat beading at his temples. Checking on Cas, Dean saw he looked much the same, but that was nothing new. Shrugging, he left the angel alone, and started walking into the graveyard with his brother.

Dropping back, Dean let Sam take the lead, knowing that this was his brother’s visit, not his. All Sam wanted to do was check that Jessica wasn’t hanging around, that she was happy wherever she was, and Dean would let him. Closing the last chapter of a book that had been laying open for eleven years would be good for Sam, no matter how much it upset him in the immediate moment.

Together, the three of them walked some distance into the headstones, finally coming to stop at a familiar one. Dean himself had only seen it twice before, and one of those times had been earlier that afternoon. Still, everything was as he remembered, from the smiling picture of Jessica, sun-bleached in its frame, to the message chiselled onto the stone, wearing down under the force of the weather. Briefly, the dull ache that he and Sam would never have words written to remember them by, except for in those terrible books, struck him. He shoved the realisation down; this was Sam’s time, not his.

In front of him, Sam dropped to his knees, hitting the grass with a thud. Cradled in his hands, fingers curling loose around the stems, was a bouquet of flowers, forget-me-nots, daisies and buttercups, wound around with a ragged piece of twine. When Dean had asked why Sam had wanted to stop in a meadow, not a store, to get flowers, Sam had simply replied that Jessica had loved wild flowers the most, had always stopped to pluck them and tuck one behind her ear, and one behind his.

Accepting that explanation, Dean had stood by as Sam had picked his flowers. Cas had gone to help, but Dean had held him back. It had been a task for his brother to accomplish alone, and he would not have appreciated the help, even if he would have thanked the angel to his face.

Finally, Sam uncurled his fingers, letting the flowers fall onto the grave with a faint brush of sound, nothing more. There he stayed, hunched over, fingertips brushing through the grass, staining brown with mud. Dean had the urge to go to him, to place his hand on his brother’s shoulder, but knew that that, too, would not be appreciated.

Instead, he bowed his own head, hands tucked in his pockets, fingers of his right hand curling around the handle of a sheathed knife he hadn’t realised was in there.

It was at that moment, head bowed to the grass, that Dean sensed it. The temperature changed. Except, when he finally noticed it, it wasn’t a freezing chill, creeping through his veins and tiptoeing up his spine, making his hairs stand on end like wary soldiers. No, it was more like a summer breeze, the cool kiss of air on sun-soaked skin. It was the smell of flowers, wild and fresh as a meadow, and the faint echoing sound of laughter, far away.

Jerking his head up, he tried to locate what was causing it.

There, on the grave, sat a figure. A recognisable figure. She was smiling.

Blonde tresses blew in a wind that wasn’t there. Despite her being what must have been a ghost, her cheeks were rosy, pink-tinged with the warmth of her smile, shining like the sun, her body glowing like golden daylight. Grey eyes sparkled, dancing over Dean and Cas to land on Sam, an all-encompassing fondness softening her features, delight energising the lines of her body. As she continued to look, Dean saw she grew more crisp, more clear, more solid.

“Sam,” Dean breathed, trying to catch his brother’s attention. Sam was still hunched low, though there was a look on his face almost like peace. “Sam, get up.”

“A bit longer Dean,” Sam didn’t quite snap – he seemed too content for that – but there was an edge to his voice. He tilted his head back, and a gentle smile was crooking the corners of his lips up. Bathed in her golden light as he was, he looked happy. Guilt washed over Dean when he realised he hadn’t seen Sam that happy in so long. “I can feel her. She’s here.”

“Yes, she is,” Cas agreed, stepping forward. He placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder, firm grip unyielding, though not painful-looking. “Come here.”

Sam tried to brush Cas’ palm away, his own batting at the angel’s wrist, even as he continued to bask in Jessica’s glow. Irritation flickered across his features for a moment, his body twisting around enough that he could send Cas a baleful look for disturbing him. Finding it funny – they were just trying to tell him about something he’d be overjoyed to see, after all – Dean couldn’t hold back his chuckle. Sam sent him a questioning raised-eyebrow in response, before narrowing his eyes, cocking his head to the side.

“You guys are lit up,” he finally informed them, as if he thought they could make better use of that information than he could. “Why are you lit up?”

Before Dean could say anything, the figure on the grave finally spoke, honey-dipped laughter echoing in her voice, “Sam.”

His brother froze, his eyes widening in both shock, elation and also terror. Dean saw the flash of it, hidden beneath the other emotions, and he could guess why. Sam had always had a habit of blaming himself, had always put himself down for things that weren’t his fault. Jess’ death was absolutely not his fault, but that didn’t mean that Sam still hadn’t felt guilty about it for years afterwards. Dean’s suspicions that he still did, that he just didn’t talk about it anymore, were proved right by the shards of icy fear that shot through the warm joy.

“Sammy,” Dean encouraged, nodding towards Jessica. “I think someone wants to see you.”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, licked his lips and took a deep breath. “Yeah.” Closing his eyes, he twisted his body around to face the spirit. He must have cracked his eyes open again, because Dean heard a hitched gasp, and then a whispered, “Hi, Jess.”

“Sam,” she repeated, beautiful smile spreading wide across her lips. Her cheeks flushed darker, if that were even possible, and Dean couldn’t deny the love he saw in her expression. There was no blame there, only infinite happiness to see him. “It’s been a while.”

“Sorry,” of course his brother would immediately jump into apologising. Rolling his eyes and shaking his head, Dean brought a palm up to cover his mouth, exasperation guiding his movements. Over Sam’s head, Jessica met his eyes, _actually_ met his eyes, and shared a sort-of exasperated, yet still incredibly fond, smile with him. Her eyes focused back on Sam the second he started talking again, “Jess, I’m so sorry. I would have come earlier. I should have come before, I just…”

“Shh,” Jessica reached down, aiming to press an elegant finger against Sam’s lips, but found she couldn’t reach that far while still sitting on her own headstone. She wobbled slightly, and Dean huffed a laugh, while Cas stretched a hand out as if to catch her, before remembering. “You were busy.”

“I should have made time,” Sam argued, fists clenching where they rested on his thighs. “I should have made sure you weren’t stuck here.”

“Sam,” finally slipping from the grave, she took a few steps forward, her feet landing on the bouquets spread around the headstone but not crushing them, dancing over the top like she was a fairy, prancing wildly over fields of flowers instead. Kneeling down before him, she ducked her head to meet his gaze, told him, “Saving people who are still alive—” Sam flinched at this. Dean suspected it wasn’t the best idea for his dead girlfriend to point out, to his face, that she was dead, “—is way more important than coming to see me. Besides, I’m not stuck here.”

“Not stuck here?” Sam appeared to be struggling to get the words out, head cocking to the side in a way reminiscent of Cas. From his vantage point behind his brother, Dean could only see the long strands of brown hair, slipping inside his collar. Turning to look at Cas, Dean found that the angel was copying Sam’s pose. He made a mental note to stop letting them hang out together, if they were only going to start copying each other. One Cas was bad enough. His brother’s voice drew his attention back to the grave. “Then, how…?”

“Because of you, Silly!” Jess told him, reaching out to cup his jaw. To Dean’s surprise, his brother leaned into it, despite the fact that Jess’ hand was still slightly transparent, still glowing, and Sam’s jaw should have gone right through it. It took him a few seconds to remember that one of Sam’s powers was his ability to interact with ghosts as though they had solid forms. “I was in Heaven, but I felt your presence here. I wanted to come and see you. I didn’t know you would be able to see me, too. I’m glad you can.”

That surprised Dean. Surely she should have known, because Dean could see her, too. Cas and Sam, he understood. They were both psychic. But him? Cas had literally told him that he was almost entirely ungifted when it came to psychic powers, without enough to even have those dreams that doubled as premonitions, the ones that ordinary people had that they chalked up to unexplainable happenings, déjà vu, their own faulty memory. But yet there he was, looking at a ghost that shouldn’t have been seen.

“It’s his psychic energy,” Cas stage-whispered to Dean, obviously understanding the confusion crumpling his expression. It was spoken just loud enough for Sam to hear, so he would know why Jess could be seen by all of them, too. “It is feeding into her, making her visible for any human in the area. Sam’s soul is feeding Jessica’s.”

Dean wanted to ask if it were dangerous, but neither his brother nor Jess looked concerned by the information. Knowing that Jess had cared for Sam, had looked after him while Dean couldn’t, he knew that, if the information Cas had just revealed were dangerous in any way, Jess wouldn’t have stuck around. Instead, she knelt there, cradling Sam’s face, brushing a pearly tear away with her thumb, wearing an adoring smile directed at his little brother.

“I thought you were in Hell…” Sam confessed, swaying forwards towards her. A shock ran through Dean. Why would he have thought that? “I was told you were burning there.”

“Oh, Sam,” Jessica soothed, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I’m fine. I’m not in Hell. I’m in Heaven. Trust me.”

“Promise,” Sam’s voice broke. Dean desperately wanted to reach out to him, to support him, but Sam was in the middle of a private conversation, one that Cas and Dean were already intruding into just by watching it. “Promise you’re okay.”

“I promise,” Jess assured.

Sam almost crumpled at that, but Jess’ golden fingers wrapped around his shoulders, held him up. Supported by her, Sam wrapped his arms around her waist, his fingers clenching into the floral frock she had appeared clad in. Dean watched as his brother finally allowed himself to topple forward, to bury his face in the crook of her neck. Over his shoulder, Jess met Dean’s eyes again, then Cas’, then gave them a trusting nod.

“Sam,” she whispered, fingers running through his hair. Dean could see she was beginning to fade, her glow dimming from sunlight to a campfire, her warm circle shrinking. “Sam, I have to leave.”

“No,” Shaking his head, Sam refused to let her go.

It looked to Dean like he was trying to bury himself further into her warmth. He was pretty sure his heart broke a little bit, knowing that there had never been anyone he had loved that much, save for Sammy himself. There never would be, either. Yet, there Sam was, burrowing his way closer to someone else, someone who wasn’t Dean.

Jealousy flared briefly, that same flash he had felt when he had first met Jess, but it settled quickly. Jess’ look of burning intensity was getting to him, worming its way under his skin and delivering the message she intended like an arrow to the heart. Dean would always come first for Sam, too. She had held his heart in her hands for a brief time. Dean had had everything else.

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean dropped down beside his brother, wedged his shoulder under Sam’s armpit when Jess finally managed to extract herself from his embrace. She didn’t fade right away, though, instead studied Sam’s hazel eyes with her loving greys. “Let’s go home, huh?”

“Wait,” Jessica murmured, holding up a flat palm in Dean’s direction. He didn’t let go of his hold on his brother, but he did pause in rising to his feet, one knee left digging into the mud beside the bouquet Sam had bought her. “Sam, you know I love you, don’t you?” It was Jess who swayed forwards this time, resting her forehead against Sam’s, her eyes open and bright with their intensity. “I don’t forgive you.”

Sam flinched at that. Hell, _Dean_ flinched at that. What sort of goodbye was that?

Shaking her head against Sam’s forehead, tightening her grip on Sam’s hair, Jess’ explanation rang through Dean’s ears.

“I don’t forgive you,” she sighed, the exhale bringing more of that scent of wild flowers and freshness, the dewiness of a bright and early morning. Her hair was still swaying in a breeze that wasn’t there. Her cooling aura, the one that had stopped the sweat from beading on their bodies, helped smooth her words over, let her deliver them with the softness of gentle kisses, of a lover’s caress. “Because there’s nothing to forgive, Sam. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t.”

“Jess,” his brother’s voice was broken. In her glow, Dean saw something sparkling on his brother’s face. Another tear had fallen, tracing down his cheek, only to be kissed away by Jess. “I love you.”

“I know,” grinned her spirit, and Dean couldn’t help the way he let out a snort of a chuckle. Her eyes darted to meet his, a conspirator’s grin on her lips. Even Sam had to shake his head at the joke, watery smile on his lips, though Cas stood oblivious as ever behind them. Sure, he might have known every reference ever, but that didn’t mean he understood when something was _being_ referenced. “I love you, too.” Both hands cupping his jaw, thumbs stroking his cheeks, Dean saw that she was ensuring his brother met her eyes before she added, “And I’m proud of you, Sam.”

A broken sound escaped his brother, but it sounded more like one of relief than one of agony. Sure, Dean knew Sam was in pain, would be sad for a while, but he was finally closing a chapter that had been left open and unread all these years. Healing old wounds would be good for him, and Dean was glad that Jess was making it easy on him.

She began fading out. Sam’s fingers wove into her hair, stilling the movement of a few strands. Dean wanted to catch hold of his fists, run his thumbs over the knuckles until Sam let go, but he let Sam do what he needed to do. This wasn’t Dean’s goodbye to make.

“I’ll always love you,” Sam told her. To Dean’s untrained ear, it sounded like his tongue was swollen, too big for his mouth. Most likely, it was the emotion clogging his throat, choking his eloquence. “Please know that.”

“I’ll always love you, too,” Jessica promised, gently extracting his fists from her hair. Her smaller hands wrapped around his on his lap, and she kept them there until Sam gave a tiny nod. Satisfied, she stood, took a step back. Kneeling at her feet with his brother, Dean couldn’t think that she looked like a goddess of mercy, readying herself to give a blessing. “But you must move on from me, too, Sam. Not just for a little bit, not just because you’re too broken and alone to continue –” Dean wondered when that had been, “—but because you _want_ to move on, because you’re happy with someone else, or because you’re happy on your own. But you have to try, Sam. Really _try_ and be happy. For me.”

“And me,” Dean murmured by his ear, sending a nod to Cas when he dropped down by Sam’s side.

“And me,” Cas added, curling a palm around Sam’s forearm and squeezing.

“But mostly,” Jessica smiled, tilting her head to the side, her blonde locks cascading around one shoulder. “Be happy for _you_ , Sam.” She looked to Dean then, sternly instructed, “Take care of him.”

Dean nodded, glad her face fell back into satisfaction at his response. He turned to his brother, who was still trying to formulate his words.

“I’ll try,” Sam eventually said. His voice was a croak, too hoarse to be heard properly. It was just a whisper on the sigh of the breeze that Jess’ fading form had roused. “I will.”

Bowing her head at that, Jess let herself begin to fade properly. In the circle of her light, they sat, watching as it became smaller and smaller, more and more faded. A campfire to a candle to a match. When she was finally almost gone, see-through like tissue-paper, she leaned forwards, pressed one parting kiss upon Sam’s lips. Dean imagined it was silk-soft, fragile as glass, but as comforting as she had ever known how to be.

Straightening, she tipped her head back, saw the sparkling spread of the stars hanging above her and laughed, a great happy laugh. Eyes darting to the side, Dean saw that his brother couldn’t keep the smile from the crinkle of his eyes, nor the corner of his lips.

Just as she was about to fade entirely, she paused, looked down at Sam and added, “Oh, and Sam?” He straightened, pressure raising from Dean’s shoulder as he did so. Dean guessed his brother was hungry to gobble up any last scrap of memory this meeting with Jess would give him. “I love the flowers.”

With that, she was gone, faded into the night peacefully, a shining smile still gracing her features.

For a few moments, it felt as if she were still there with them, still surrounding all of them like a mantle draped loving around their shoulders. At least, Dean suspected so. He certainly felt it, and Sam would _definitely_ have felt it. He got the feeling that Jess wouldn’t have left Cas out of that.

Then, just as Dean was beginning to relax into it, the feeling faded. Sticky humidity encroached upon them again, crawling unwanted fingers over them. Sweat beaded, dripped, rolled. The wild-flower and meadow scent became that of a hot night, with no release of thunder in sight. Groaning softly under his breath, Dean bemoaned the loss of Jess’ presence in his head. She had certainly been soothing.

He idly wondered if they had felt her spirit in the same way Sam had felt her in life, or if that was what her soul was like, what souls could be like, if they were left healthy, whole and happy.

Tucking that thought away, Dean helped drag Sam to his feet. His brother seemed stunned, a few tears escaping down his cheeks still, though he wasn’t sobbing, wasn’t aching and crashing and cracking inside. On his face, underneath that infinitely sad expression, Dean could see something beginning to bloom, something that seemed a little bit like hope. Maybe his brother was finally finding redemption for something he should never have had to carry the blame for in the first place? Whatever it was, Dean was glad of it, glad that Sam’s silent relief was making him so manipulatable.

Directing Sam towards the Impala, Dean and Cas worked in unison to put Sam in Baby and get on the road. There, Sam stayed in the front seat, staring endlessly out of the windscreen. Dean could practically hear the cogs whirring in his brother’s brain, could see the smoke pouring out of his ears as Sam tried to readjust his life views. It was, to his surprise, kind of pleasant to have Sam in that stunned state of realisation, not yet breaking down, not yet sobbing in earnest.

Glad for it, Dean pulled into the motel they had been staying in, parking right outside of their door. Cas’ was one door down, the room paid for only because the angel still didn’t sleep, and Dean didn’t want to be watched over by him for the entire night. Sam would probably need a quiet space to break down as well, and while he could sometimes do that in front of Dean, he wouldn’t want an audience larger than one.

Smiling softly, keeping his gaze away from the other two – they would only rib him for chick-flick moments, even if they’d save the ribbing for a less emotionally charged moment – Dean unlocked the door. Shuffling in, he let Sam follow close on his heels, both of them waving a subdued goodnight to Cas. That was, of course, when Dean felt it.

The room began to cool, not quite as cold as a normal haunting, but still much cooler than Jess visiting spirit had been. Surprised, he whirled, trying to find where the ghost was forming.

Behind him, a figure flickered in and out of reality. He seemed faintly familiar, though Dean couldn’t place him.

“Hiya, Sam,” he grinned, folding his arms across his chest. “Long time, no see.”


	10. A Favour Long Paid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a ghost in their motel room. One who seems to recognise Sam. A ghost who wants a favour done for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, 
> 
> I know I said I would update on Saturdays, and this is a Friday, but I'm actually moving house tomorrow, so will be too busy to post tomorrow. I'm only getting to the city at six o'clock in the evening, should the ferries be running smoothly and on time. :) 
> 
> Anyway, because of that, I thought I'd post this chapter today. I'm sorry that it's just another 'Sam meets someone from his past' chapter, but I figured that it would be best to do them both while he's in California, rather than throwing this one in randomly at another time. I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Please feel free to leave a comment if you wish. Enjoy... :)

A Favour Long Paid

Dean gaped openly, his lower lip hanging down a little in shock. There, standing just before the doorway, was the flickering figure of someone Dean _swore_ he knew, though just how he did escaped him. From the grey-scale of the figure, it was hard to pin-point colours, but Dean suspected that the man’s hair was blond, and his eyes quite light. His features were a little too soft for what he remembered, _if_ he remembered, as if he’d seen the face when it were older, somehow.

Beside him, his brother swayed, backwards and forwards, like he couldn’t quite decide whether he wanted to stumble away in shock, or forwards in greeting. Reaching out, Dean steadied him, a hand cupping his shoulder to reassure him.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked, his voice coming out more accusatory than he wanted it to. Sam shot him a guilty look, eyes dark like they only ever were when he thought back to the years after he had broken the last seal. Swallowing, Dean tried to make his face appear softer, kinder; he wasn’t angry at Sam, just at the fact that he _couldn’t place_ the man sort-of-standing before them. “Anyone I know?” 

“Hi,” the ghost stepped forward with a charming grin, reaching out as if to shake Dean’s hand. Shocked dumb – it wasn’t often they found a peaceful ghost, let alone one that appeared so _friendly_ – Dean stuck his hand out in return. Freezing fingers passed right through his palm, causing Dean’s shoulders to rise, and his body to shudder. “I’m Tyson. Brady.”

Dean knew that name. He’d heard it before, somewhere…

Realisation stretched Dean’s eyes wide, and he turned to his brother with a searching gaze. Sam had his head ducked, very astutely ignoring the ghost. From the way he was holding himself stock-still, hunching over to seem as small and non-menacing as possible, Dean knew that his brother was trying to make himself disappear. He wasn’t ignoring Brady out of any rude intentions, simply out of his own guilt. Dean knew why.

“He’s that demon,” Dean blurted, cursing himself as soon as he saw his brother’s flinch. “The one Crowley brought to us. Well… us to.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, peeking out from behind scruffy strands of hair. His voice was tired, his throat dry and scratchy-sounding from the evening’s emotional turmoil. Dean suspected that, once Tyson had left, his brother would collapse into the tidy bed behind him and not rouse for at least a day. Yet, exhausted as Sam was, he was still focusing on the situation, still explaining to Dean what was going on. “This is Tyson. We met at college.”

“No shit,” despite not wanting to upset or aggravate his brother, Dean couldn’t help his words. Where else were they going to have met, to be meeting in that motel? The Amazon?

To his surprise, two heads swivelled around to stare at him, both eyes disapproving, though Sam certainly did the bitch-face better. Throwing his hands up in defeat, judging the ghost not to be a threat, Dean walked to the table in the corner of the room, hooking his foot around a chair-leg to snag it, then throwing himself down into it. Leaning back, hands resting loosely on the table, near the spare cannister of salt (it never hurt to be too careful) Dean watched the situation play out.

Sam was still standing, almost dumbstruck. As Brady walked towards him, he seemed to shrink back. Hackles raised, Dean readied himself to jump in, but when Brady finally reached his brother, finally reached up to place a hand on Sam’s cheek – and why was he doing _that_? – Sam sank into the touch.

“Sam,” Brady murmured, his face wearing a soft smile, somewhere on the cusp of friendly and loving. There was nothing brotherly about it, but there was also nothing as love-struck as Jess’ smile had been. This was the smile of an ex-lover who never truly grew to love, just as they never truly grew to be loved in return. It surprised Dean. Of course it surprised Dean. He hadn’t known. But that didn’t mean he begrudged his brother for it. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s…” Sam began, struggling to get the words out. Dean had to admit he felt sympathy. What were you meant to say, to someone who had been scooped out of their earthly vessel so that a demon could masquerade as them in their place? “Ty, I can’t believe—”

“Believe it,” Brady grinned, cheeks stretching wide. “I’ve been waiting so long for you to come this way. I was starting to think you wouldn’t.”

Even from where he sat, at an angle to the two, Dean could see the neutral expression Sam’s face had fallen into, the one that suggested whoever had just spoken to him was an idiot. To Dean’s surprise, Brady actually laughed at that implication, patting Sam’s shoulder and wheezing out something about missing that face, though why Dean didn’t know. Back when Brady and Sam had known each other, his brother wasn’t the bitchy, rough-looking guy Brady was seeing then, but had still been baby-faced and adorable.

Which, Dean realised, as the spirit reached up to wipe away ghostly laughter-tears, falling like pearls down his cheeks, was what was wrong with Brady’s face. This face was far younger than that the demon had been wearing, rounder, still coated in the puppy-fat that suggested the man had been young. The demon had been in a meat-suit that wouldn’t have eaten, but because it wasn’t technically dead, the consciousness scooped out before it was entered (there was no way Brady was a real ghost. The only way he could be so friendly, so without rage, was if his whole soul had been laying idle, dormant in that motel room, removed from the body it had once occupied without damage), it would have needed that sustenance to keep the flesh on the bones. No wonder Brady’s face didn’t seem angular enough; it wasn’t half-starved.

“I know, I know,” Brady patted Sam’s chest, still grinning up at his brother. Dean found it kind of creepy, but from the soft glint to his baby brother’s eyes, Dean suspected Sam found it endearing, missed. “You wouldn’t have come here again if you could help it. I suppose a hunt draws you this way.”

“How did you…” Sam asked, but cut himself off. Dean could see the glint of his teeth just sinking into his lower lip, trapping the words behind his teeth.

“How did I know?” Brady suggested. At Sam’s nod, Dean’s coming at exactly the same time (he was confused, too), Brady explained, “When that thing… a demon, I think?” Sam confirmed it, leaving Dean to remain in his chair, feeling useless. “When it scooped me out of my body, it explained what it was doing, what you were meant to be. The King of Hell.”

“I’m not,” Sam practically snapped, finally taking a step away from Brady. Before Dean knew it, he himself was out of his chair, drawing level with his brother so he could rest a protective hand on his shoulder. Menacingly, he glared at Brady over Sam’s shoulder, finding a satisfied smirk rising to his lips when Brady actually backed down, taking a few steps backwards. Well, a short glide backwards. “I’m a hunter.”

“It said that, too,” Brady agreed, holding up his hands. “But think about it, Sam. They want you to be King of Hell. I don’t know how much time you have left, even! They’re planning it. That’s why they have my body. That’s why I need a favour of you.”

“A favour?” Sam repeated, Brady’s urgency making him slow.

Shaking his head, Dean stepped forward, allowing his brother time to adjust. Eyes shadowed and translucent turned towards him, Dean just able to make out the ugly pattern of leaves on the wall-paper behind him.

“Dude,” Dean started, folding his arms across his chest. “That stuff’s all done, okay? Sammy here—” he patted his brother on the chest, lips tilting upwards when Brady’s features went all gooey when they landed on Sam again. “He’s not the King of Hell. Probably Hell’s most wanted, actually. He tends to cause them trouble.”

“Who are you?” Brady asked, though he didn’t sound accusing or rude, merely curious. “Sam’s partner?”

“Gross,” Dean wrinkled his nose, holding up his hands before either Brady or Sam could jump down his throat. From the dawning fury on Brady’s face, Dean knew it was coming. He hurried to explain, “Not in that way. Sam can have whoever he wants as a partner. But I’m his brother. So, yeah, gross.”

At that, Brady chuckled, the defensive anger slipping off his features like rain off a window, leaving them clear and fresh. Next to him, his brother was looking at him funnily, a very soft look spreading across his features. Sam opened his mouth, as if to say ‘thank you’ or something of that ilk, and Dean felt panic rising up. He didn’t want his brother to thank him for something as basic as allowing him to be with who he chose to be with.

Obviously seeing his look of panic, Brady jumped in, saying, “Dean Winchester. He talked about you.”

“He did?”

The admission surprised Dean. When his brother had gone off, while they had met up occasionally for the first two years of college, they had eventually drifted apart, an argument over their Dad becoming the final straw that meant they hadn’t spoken to each other in two years. While Dean knew that Sam had met Tyson near the start of his time at college, had met him while they were on speaking terms, it still surprised him to hear that he had been spoken of. He had assumed he had been his brother’s dirty little secret, part of the hunting family he never spoke of.

“Sure,” Brady agreed affably, charming smile drifting to his lips. “Especially after I asked him why he always had such ragged scars.”

Raising a brow, Dean turned to his brother.

With a shrug, Sam explained, “Brady was a medical student. He thought your stitching was shoddy.”

“That’s because his stitching _was_ shoddy,” Brady fired back at Sam, that expression of fondness settling softly over his features once again. It was a little distracting to Dean, watching it come and go and come and go the way it did. “And yours wasn’t much better.”

“Hey!” Dean interjected, hands landing on his hips in fists. “My stitching is great, thank you very much!”

“Yeah, _now_ ,” to Dean’s surprise and relief, Sam was grinning. Finally, he appeared to be taking Brady’s presence in his stride, not worrying about the fact that he had destroyed the kid’s body whilst ridding the world of one more demon. It was good to see his brother settling back into a more comfortable skin, one that he must have worn at least sometimes around Brady, if the way he was resettling into it was any indication. “After _I_ taught you better. After _Ty_ taught me better.”

“So maybe Dad’s lessons could have done with a little work,” he shrugged, waving Sam’s point away as if it didn’t matter in the slightest.

Further lifting Dean’s spirits, Sam’s laugh echoed out into the room.

Turning to study his brother’s face, Dean saw the deep dimples that were so rarely on display anymore. He saw that glorious sparkle in his brother’s eyes that suggested he was having fun, that he’d put away all his awful memories just for a moment, just to exist in happiness for a while, a brief escape in the day. He saw the way Sam finally straightened out, how that hunched spine elongated into his brother’s usual tall form. He grinned.

Even so, he could see his brother’s deep sadness at the loss of his… first boyfriend, Dean realised with some shock. He knew his brother had kissed a few girls before he’d gone off to college, but he’d never had a relationship before then. Hell, he was probably standing in the room with the person who had taught Sam how they worked, and not in a crazily co-dependent way that he and his brother had created between them. Wonder seized him, and he found himself slumping down on the end of the bed, ignoring Brady’s concerned expression, and the one the two other men in the room exchanged between themselves.

Silence settled around them, comfortable and easy until it wasn’t. Brady started shifting, worry lines gouging their way across his brow.

“I hate to ask it,” he began, wringing his fingers together, shifting from foot to foot like he was standing on hot coals. “But I _do_ need that favour.”

“What do you need?” Sam asked, reaching out to place a hand on the ghost’s shoulder. It stilled the figure, leaving Dean feeling at least somewhat glad. Brady’s incessant rocking had begun to make him feel dizzy-sick, the translucency of him not helping the matter at all. “We’ll see if we can help.”

“I need you to stop that creature in my body,” Brady practically begged. His eyes were fixed on Sam’s unshifting. “I’m sorry to have to ask you Sam, I really am, and I don’t really know what you can do to help—” it surprised Dean that Brady didn’t know the skills Sam had, until he realised the man was working only off of information he had been given by a demon, and his own knowledge from when he had been removed from his meat suit. “But I can’t have that thing going around in my body, causing havoc. What would my family think, huh? They probably wondered what happened to me.”

Chancing a glance at his brother’s face, Dean withheld a hiss when he saw the way Sam’s expression had crumpled. Shoulders drew up around his ears again, and Sam stumbled backwards until he was sitting on the end of the other bed, fingers pressed over his mouth.

Eventually, around them, he said, “They did.”

“What?” Brady blinked, confused.

“They did wonder what had happened to you,” Sam explained. Dean watched as hazel eyes flicked up to meet Brady’s light-toned eyes, before immediately redirecting to the floor. Yeah, his brother was experiencing some serious guilt. “We all wondered what happened to you. I should have known you were a demon.”

“How?” Brady asked, drifting forwards to kneel at Sam’s feet. Head tilted up, he searched Sam’s face, a reassuring look fixed in place. Dean was glad; no matter how many times he’d tried to get this message through his brother’s head, Sam just hadn’t understood it from him. Perhaps if Brady told him, it would get through his brother’s thick skull. “Sam, you knew I was going off the rails before that demon scooped me out. That’s how it chose me.”

“I should have seen you were at risk,” Sam told his palms. Dean sighed.

“Sam, tell me honestly,” Brady soothed, fingers resting lightly on Sam’s thighs. “Were you really suspecting me to become a demon back then? Was Hell something you even thought about a lot?”

At that, Sam was struck dumb. Dean knew why, as well. Sam was so insistent to blame himself for all the terrible things that had happened to him at Stanford, and more importantly, at least for Sam, to his friends at Stanford, that he’d never stopped to consider the fact that, as a teenager, then a young man, he _hadn’t_ been expecting demons. None of them had. Hell, Dean remembered that time they faced one on an airplane and they had to _work out how_ to stop demons. If Sam had encountered one at Stanford, he never would have known, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to deal with it. Not back then.

“I don’t blame you Sam,” Brady reached up, pushing Sam’s bangs back. Dean looked away; the moment was too intimate to watch. “But I do need you to do this favour for me. I can’t do it myself. I can’t leave this room.”

“Ty…” Sam strained, and Dean looked back up. There was a pained expression on his brother’s face: more guilt. Dean rolled his eyes, shaking his head sadly. “Ty, it’s already done. I’m sorry.”

“Already… done?” Brady asked, eyes widening. Something that looked an awful lot like relief settled over Brady’s face, though Dean could tell his brother didn’t read it as such. “Sam—”

“I’m sorry,” Sam repeated, expression pained. “I didn’t know if you were in there or not. I didn’t stop to think. I just killed the demon, because I was angry, and because it had been there for seven years and—”

“Sam,” Brady began, a tinge of laughter entering his voice. Eventually, he resorted to grabbing Sam’s hands, locking them in place on the giant’s lap. “Sam, it’s okay. That’s great, even! I’m glad you did. If I _had_ been in there for seven years, well…”

Still, Sam refused to look up. Deciding to take matters into his own hands, Dean stood from the end of the bed, moving across the room to place a hand reassuringly at the nape of his brother’s neck. When that shaggy head of hair shifted, turning a watery hazel gaze his way, Dean smiled softly.

“He’s right,” Dean added, settling next to his brother, close enough that their thighs pressed together. “I was a demon for a few months, and I still…” he paused, fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and admitted, “I still can’t stand some of the things I did. Seven years would be—”

“Hell,” Brady finished the thought, picking it up where Dean had left off. Even having experienced true Hell himself for years, Dean found he couldn’t disagree with the ghost’s assessment of the situation. “It would have been Hell.”

“So, see?” Dean asked, nudging his brother. When Sam rocked further than he should have, flailing an arm out to grab onto something and catching on Brady, he turned an accusing look on Dean, though there was the beginning twitches of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “You’ve done your man a favour!”

“He’s not my man,” Sam protested, weakly. To Dean’s surprise, when he snuck a glance at Brady to gauge his reaction after that comment, the ghost didn’t look displeased. Instead, he looked relieved, as if he were glad Sam had moved on, had let go. Sam took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then admitted, “But I guess you’re right. I’m still sorry, though.”

“You’re always sorry,” Brady pointed out, beating Dean to it.

Turning a raised brow on his brother, Dean asked, “Something I need to know about, Sammy? Were you guilt-tripping yourself at college, too?”

“No,” Sam said, though it sounded fake even to Dean’s ears.

From the colour splotching itself high on Sam’s cheeks, he suspected even Sam knew he wasn’t getting away with that one.

“Oh, definitely,” Brady grinned, sharing his teasing smile with Dean. His face fell back into seriousness again quickly. “But I would like another favour, in that case.”

“Anything,” Sam hurried to promise, and Dean bit back his internal wince.

This wasn’t a monster they were agreeing to help; this was an old, _old_ family member, back when Sam had probably felt like he hadn’t got very much family at all.

“Can you get me out of this room?” Brady asked.

Sam fell silent at that. From the look on his face, Dean suspected his brother was stumped. Well, he suspected that until Sam’s face became considering, his lips pressing together in thought, head tilted to the side like Cas’ often did. Hazel eyes slid closed, lids flickering as Sam retreated far within himself, deep enough that Dean knew he was drawing on his powers, trying to find the link between Brady and the room, Brady and whatever was keeping him locked in place.

Finally, after a few minutes of awkward silence and thumb-twiddling from both Dean and Brady, neither meeting each-other’s gaze, Sam’s eyes flew open. Unsteadily, he raised from the bed, moving trance-like towards a drawer in the room. Jostling for position behind Sam – though it was difficult and relatively uncomfortable, what with the way Brady kept going _through_ Dean – they both peered over his shoulder, frowning equally when they saw the draw was empty.

All that was in it was some mouldering paper, fixed as internal decoration and yellowing, peeling. The pattern was dulled, fading into the background colour, and Dean figured it was about time the motel changed it, gave it a touch-up, something. It even smelled musty, a great dusty wave of the scent washing over Dean.

Coughing, Dean watched as Sam, still transfixed, took the knife from beneath Dean’s pillow, wedging the tip of it under the curling edge of the paper and using it to peel it up. Beneath it, symbols made themselves known, unfamiliar but still incredibly demonic in nature. They almost hurt to look at. Dean turned his head away, and Brady outright glided back.

When the last of the mould-ridden paper was stripped away, Sam finally dropped out of his endlessly staring state, instead turning to face Brady.

“This is what’s keeping you here,” he gestured weakly, knife still in hand. Dean thought it made him look ridiculous, but from Brady’s narrow-eyed expression, it _might_ have made him look dangerous. “If I break it, your soul will be free. But… Ty, are you sure?”

“Sam,” Brady said, stepping forwards. He stepped right up close, close enough that their chests brushed whenever Sam took a breath in. Standing by his brother’s shoulder as he was, Dean felt uncomfortable, so he took a few paces back, pretending to be studying a cobweb in the corner, instead of them. From the corner of his eye, Dean watched as Brady gently took the knife from Sam’s hand, laying it carefully on the bed, before turning back to his brother. “Sam, I’ve been here for so long, I can’t even keep track of how long it’s been. There’s nothing to do here all day, ever, and I’m so tired. I just want to leave.”

“If you’re sure,” Sam nodded, though his voice sounded tight, wrought with emotions. “Then just break a line of it. Or I can, if you want?”

“Together?” Brady asked, reaching out for the knife again. With it in his hand, he seemed much more comfortable, as if he were under the impression that Sam could have hurt him with it. Then again, Dean mused, perhaps Sam could. His brother could touch spirits, after all. Who said he _couldn’t_ use knives to injure them? “We used to say we would do everything together. College, figuring out the world, searching for a job… I think we should do this together, too.”

Glancing at his brother, Dean could see the wet sheen to his eyes, the way he was biting his lips from the inside. He studied Brady’s face, hazel eyes flashing from one of the ghost’s translucent irises and then the other, before he gave a short, sharp nod.

“Together.”

Reaching down, Sam wrapped his long fingers around Brady’s wrist, loose and gentle, allowing the ghost to be the one who controlled the situation. Much to Dean’s surprise, Brady’s arm was steady when he lifted it, dipping the blade inside the drawer. When the tip of it hit the wood, a scratching sound escaped, until the blade came to a stop. Brady wasn’t fading yet.

Instead, he turned his gaze away from the shadowed inside of the drawer, looking up to meet Sam’s eyes instead. With his free hand, he cupped Sam’s cheek. Even from his cobwebbed corner, Dean could see Brady’s warm smile.

“College was one Hell of a time, Sam,” he informed him, eyes crinkling with his happiness. “You made it so. I’m really glad I met you.”

Dean could see the way Sam rebelled against those words, wanting to say that Brady shouldn’t have been.

Still, his brother leaned forwards, pressed his forehead to Brady’s, then admitted, “I’m really glad I met you, too.”

Smiling softly, Brady leaned up, placed a quick peck on the corner of Sam’s lips, then moved his arm, Sam’s moving with his. Together, they scratched the occult symbol off of the inside of the drawer, and Brady began to fade. He became more and more transparent, while the air in the room became warmer and warmer, heating up to that uncomfortable Californian temperature that made sweat drip down Dean’s back almost immediately.

Sam was left standing there, fingers just dipping into the shadows within the drawer, the knife clattering onto the wooden base. Blinking, seeming slightly dazed, Sam turned to peer at the knife, though he made no move to retrieve it. Dean didn’t blame him. His brother must have been completely emotionally drained after the night he’d had.

Gently, making no sudden movements so as not to spook him, Dean took a hold of Sam, leading him around the bed and towards his brother’s own. Guiding him to sit on the edge of it, he bent down and removed his brother’s shoes, making a mental note to buy more. The laces were frayed-thin, and the bottom was hanging off of one of them. They would be no use in a hunt.

Placing them to the side, Dean gave his brother a nod, before turning his back. Fishing the blade from the drawer, he breathed out a quiet sigh of relief when he heard the opposite mattress dip, though he didn’t turn around right away. Instead, he busied himself with tucking the knife back under his pillow, pushing the drawer closed with some difficulty due to the stiff runners it was on, then putting the waste paper into the trash can in the darkest corner, the one by the TV.

When he finally turned around, his brother was lying in the bed, no blankets covering him, sweat glistening at his brow, but eyes closed. He wasn’t asleep; his breathing was too unsteady for that, his muscles too tense, but he was trying to get some rest. Respecting that his brother didn’t want to talk – Dean couldn’t blame him, as that night had been _a lot_ – he just ran his fingers through his brother’s hair, pushing the sweat-damp strands back from Sam’s brow, before removing his own boots, laying back in his own bed.

Staring up at the ceiling, Dean found that he couldn’t wait to return to the Bunker the next day. The trip had been good for Sam, had offered a lot of closure, but Dean suspected that what his brother really needed after that were the comforts of home. Knowing that he couldn’t provide them there, in California, Dean just had to hope his presence was enough, close by his brother’s side, and that the closure his brother had received that day would do the rest to ensure he had a restful night’s sleep for once.


	11. A Touch of Pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean manages to say the wrong thing to the wrong person, and get himself cursed. They can't go to the witches of Lawrence to break it, because they put the curse on him. Magda, Missouri and Sam are going to have to work together to fix it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. I'm not so sure about it, but it was the only chapter I didn't have a concrete plan for in this collection of one-shots. I figured it needed to be a little funnier than the last two chapters, so I hope this hits the spot. It was inspired by the obnoxiously bright curtains in my new kitchen, so sorry if it's terrible! :) 
> 
> Anyway, as I said, I hope you like this chapter. Please feel free to leave a comment, if you so desire. Thank you for reading! :)

A Touch of Pink

Dean panted heavily as he ran down the streets of Lawrence and up Missouri’s drive. The Impala was glinting brightly under the sun, radiating summer heat, and Dean was incredibly careful not to brush against his beloved baby. Instead, he swerved around, reaching Missouri’s door and tapping on it with the bright pink stick clutched in one horror-clenched hand.

Bending over, hands tucked between his knees, careful not to touch, Dean tried to gulp in great breaths, a task made more difficult by the fact that the air was muggy, humid, and refusing to break. It hadn’t for days, and though thunder had rumbled far in the distance the previous evening, Lawrence itself hadn’t been blessed with rain. No, all they had got was a thickening of the humidity, enough that Sam and Magda’s hair was beginning to curl at the ends, and Missouri had already given up on trying to salvage her own. Though, Dean suspected, it was less a giving up, and more a lack of care in the first place. Missouri had never struck him as the sort of woman who obsessed over her hair.

Still panting somewhat, Dean began to straighten up when the door swung open. Only a crack, but open it did. Held open the way it was, Dean knew his brother was standing behind the door, gun pressed against the wood, just peeking around. Finally straightening up fully, Dean could meet Sam’s hazel eyes, his slowly furrowing brow.

“Dean?” he asked, swinging the door open wider. He flicked the safety back on the gun, then lay it down on the side-table. “What’s wrong? Why were you running?”

“Witches!” he burst out, pushing past his brother. When Sam crashed sideways into the wall, Dean paused to wait for him, but didn’t touch him. Sam could sort his own balance out. “Witches in the town! Witches!”

“Right…” Sam raised an eyebrow at him, eyes darting past Dean to whoever was standing behind him. “Is that… bad? What were they doing?”

“Is that bad?!” Dean exclaimed, brandishing his stick with relish. He spun around the hallway, pointing it directly at Magda, who shrunk back in some combination of wariness and shock. “Is that bad, he asks? They’re witches.”

“And I’m a psychic,” Sam pointed out, reaching past Dean to take the stick out of his hand. Holding on for a few seconds longer than necessary, Dean reluctantly let his brother remove the item from his grasp. Frowning down at the stick, hot-pink as it was, Sam crossed the room and placed it on the coffee table, before turning back to Dean. “What were they doing?”

“They cursed me!” Dean declared, throwing his hands up in the air. Throwing a beseeching look Sam’s way, Dean gestured back towards the front door, hoping his brother understood. “We have to go and stop them,” he added, for extra clarification. “They’re a hazard to society.”

Sam’s face softened, though not in an understanding way, so much as in a humouring sort of way. Taking a few steps forward, he caused Dean to stumble back. Horrified, not wanting to affect his brother, Dean thrust his hands out behind him, tripping over his own two feet, desperate in his scramble back. Shock coursed through him as he fell backwards, and he let out a soft cry, squeezing his eyes shut in the hopes that his hands wouldn’t touch anything.

His fingertips brushed Missouri’s wall. He bit back a groan of disappointment.

When he opened his eyes, Sam was fixed in place, looking just above Dean with a dumbfounded expression. Wide hazel eyes flicked towards Magda’s large brown ones, a confused look shared between them, before both pairs of eyes refocused on the wall behind Dean. Carefully, Magda inched towards Sam. Dean noted how carefully she walked around him, as if he were likely to cause her harm. Ordinarily, he would have felt offended by such an assumption. With the curse placed on him, he could understand well.

“Missouri isn’t going to be happy,” Magda finally confided in Sam, her voice quiet enough that Dean knew her words weren’t meant for him. She had never really clicked with him the way she had with Sam, and Dean knew why. Even now, despite the fact that Sam helped rescue her, despite the fact that her and Sam had so much in common, she was incredibly wary. Dean suspected it had much more to do with her dislike of herself than it had of either him or his brother. Still, she trusted Sam somewhat, so when worry at the situation overtook her, she turned to him, asked, “Will Missouri punish us?”

“Has Missouri ever punished you?” Sam asked. From where Dean was standing, he could tell his brother was partially distracted, only focusing half his attention, if that, on Magda. “She’ll be fine about it.” Finally seeming to come to terms with what had just happened, Sam let a grin spread across his lips. Dean noted his dimples, the way they dug wells into his cheeks while he spoke. “Besides, if she’s angry, we can just blame Dean.”

“Blame Dean for what?” Missouri asked. Dean could already picture the stern press of her lips and her raised eyebrow, even before she came around the corner. When she made it into the room, Dean watched as her face fell from faintly amused into an incredibly unimpressed expression. “Dean Winchester, would you care to explain to me what you have done to my wall?”

“Witches!” he exclaimed, thrusting his hands forwards and wiggling his fingers.

Personally, he thought he had given a very helpful explanation. Missouri, obviously, did not.

Dishcloth dangling from one hand, Missouri placed her fists on her hips. One eyebrow raised, she stood level with Sam and Magda, exchanging looks with the two of them before returning her attention to Dean. He gulped.

“Witches decided they didn’t like me décor, did they?” She asked, tone condescending. Dean couldn’t blame her. He had, in his desperate fumbling not to turn his brother hot pink, turned her living room wall that same obnoxiously bright colour. It had been a lovely – not that Dean was an expert in these things, but still – pale green before he had touched it. He could see why she wasn’t exactly impressed. “So they broke into my house to paint one wall?” Throwing her gaze around the room, she noticed the stick Sam had placed haphazardly on the coffee table. It had rolled its way towards the edge, hanging half-on and half-off. “And one stick?”

Peeling himself away from the wall, Dean tucked his hands into his pockets, then winced internally. Looking down, he let out a deep sigh. His jeans were no longer a faded blue. Instead, hot-pink denim clung to his thighs, his sins, fraying in all the same places his _good_ jeans had been.

“My pants are ruined,” he said mournfully, hands still tucked in the pockets. He was scared of what would happen if he took them out; unrestrained hands left him free to touch anything at all. Shaking his head sadly, he risked a glance up. Sam, Magda and Missouri were all staring at him with wide eyes, though a smile was tugging around the corners of his brother’s lips. Magda was throwing worried glances towards Missouri, and the stern woman herself was eyeing Dean with the regular amount of fond exasperation. “Witches cursed me so that everything I touch turns pink.”

“And…” Sam began, folding his arms. Without his flannel shirt on – Dean didn’t know why he wasn’t wearing it – his muscles bulged under the sleeves of his shirt. Not for the first time, Dean wished he had the dedication to fitness that his brother had picked up somewhere in the long years of hunting. He remembered a time when his brother was only young, hating every exercise that their dad had made them do. He wondered if John would be proud of Sam now. He figured their father wouldn’t even _recognise_ him anymore. Sam’s voice brought him back to the present, stopped him from rocking on the balls of his feet. “You decided that we have to wipe out all the witches because of this curse?”

Dean nodded. It seemed only fair, right? What else could he do?

When he asked as much, he got two identical snorts. Even Magda must have found that weird, because black hair fanned out around her head as she whipped her face towards her companions.

“We could try talking to them, first,” Sam pointed out. The corners of his eyes were crinkled, his cheeks still bearing the faint impression of dimples. “Ask them nicely. I know it’ll be tough for you, Dean, but still…”

“That won’t work,” Missouri informed them, shaking her head in a sorry manner. There was a sparkle behind her brown eyes that Dean didn’t trust. “They cursed him for a reason. I know the head of the coven. She’s a very sensible woman. She’ll have no funny business—”

“She cursed me so that everything I touch turns pink!” Pointed out Dean, ripping his hands from his pockets and holding them out towards her, palms facing the ceiling. “I’m pretty sure that counts as funny business.”

“It is funny, I’ll give you that,” Missouri shrugged, shaking her head and folding her arms. The dishcloth moulded itself down the front of her body, still hanging from her fist. “But it isn’t funny business. You must have annoyed her royally, Boy.”

Three pairs of eyes fixed on him, blinking slowly, deliberately.

Shifting, Dean resettled his shoulders, folded his arms and moulded his tucked away hands around his ribs. Belatedly, he remembered his predicament, and from his periphery he could see his previously green jacket turn bright, bright pink. A whimper trapped itself behind his lips. He looked terrible, he just knew. Even Magda was having a hard time containing her giggles, and she was up there with Sam on the ‘lack of laughter’ scale Dean had created within his mind.

When they didn’t stop staring at him, Dean finally declared, “I didn’t do anything!”

“Are you sure you haven’t said something insensitive to anyone today?” Sam asked, clearly trying to sound placating. Dean could only hear accusation. Upon seeing the expression on his face, Sam held his hands up, adding, “You do have a habit, Dean.”

Choosing to be the bigger man, Dean shook his head. Fists on hips – he figured it didn’t matter if he touched his jeans now, they were already ruined – Dean pressed his lips together in a tight line, glaring at his brother sternly.

“I never,” he menaced, though only lightly. He wasn’t really that angry at his brother. After all, he was perfectly aware that he _did_ have a habit of saying insensitive things, and he didn’t want to upset Magda. “Though… I mean, that lady at the bakery didn’t like it when I said—”

“Said what?” Magda asked, voice still timid, though very decidedly there. Dean was oddly proud of her for plucking up the courage to speak. “What did you say?”

“I may have…” Dean shrugged, looking around in a nonchalant fashion. Well, he hoped it was nonchalant. From his brother’s snort, he suspected he just looked guilty. “I may have told her that pink was a chick colour.”

“Dean,” Sam exclaimed, disappointment and amusement both tinging his voice. “That is definitely offensive to some people.”

“There’s no such thing as a ‘chick’ colour,” Magda pointed out.

Dean suspected she thought she was being helpful, but it only made him feel more defensive. He huffed, and Magda shrunk back inside herself somewhat. Guilt trickled through Dean, but he dammed it off quickly. He hadn’t meant to be offensive, and he had only said it because she had been suggesting he dye his hair bright pink. Apparently, she thought it would be ‘ _so_ mega hot’.

“It hardly matters,” Missouri said, though the stern expression she fixed on Dean, coupled with the raised eyebrow, suggested to him that it did matter, at least a little bit. “We can lift the curse without the coven’s help.” She paused, eyed Dean again, then added, “We aren’t likely to get it, after all.”

Exasperated, Dean threw his hands up. Remembering the curse he was afflicted with, he tried to contain the gesture, sure that the aborted movement would look weird to his audience but not caring. He doubted Missouri would have been appreciative if his finger brushed off her woven brown lightshade, painting it a hot pink colour. Sure it would match the wall, he figured, but the rest of the décor? Not so much.

“Your brother,” Missouri reached up and patted Sam on the shoulder, leaving Sam to beam at him with an angelic smile. “Should have enough witch magic in him to break the curse, so long as Magda and I help boost it.”

“Witch magic?” Dean asked, dubious.

His brother was a psychic, wasn’t he? He asked as much. 

“He is,” Missouri agreed, nodding her chin slowly. The dangly parts of her earrings clacked against each other softly. “But every psychic has the potential for witchcraft.”

“Missouri says it’s about where we channel our power,” Magda chimed in, her voice stronger when she was talking about what she had learned. Despite his predicament, Dean had to admit that seeing her with more confidence made the corners of his lips twitch up. Across from him, his brother full-on beamed at the girl. “She says people have a more natural affinity for channelling it into the mind, but we could also channel it into a power-well.” She paused, bit her lip, then added, “That’s witchcraft.”

“The point is,” Missouri cut in, hand wrapped around Sam’s upper arm. “Your brother is a very powerful psychic. That means he will have at least some power devoted to a power-well.”

“What about other people?” Dean felt himself asking. “Do they channel it into a power-well? Psychic energy, I mean?”

Missouri looked considering for a moment, as if trying to work out how to explain it. To his credit, Dean thought, he waited as patiently as he could. Especially when faced with the fact, in the glass reflection of the coffee-table, he could see his hot-pink clad form. It was, without doubt, soul-destroying. He never thought he would have been caught wearing such embarrassing garb. _Never_.

“It shows itself in most people through ordinary little things,” Missouri began, drawing Dean’s attention back to her. She was beginning to walk towards the kitchen, so like good little ducklings, he, Sam and Magda fell in line behind her, toddling along and listening attentively. “Some people will always get the paper ball into the trash can. Some people will always pick the right bingo numbers. Some people will always cook good food without needing to taste it.” In the kitchen, Missouri gestured for Dean to climb onto one of the stools around the island. Careful not to touch it with his hands, he clambered on, almost losing his balance for a moment, before his brother placed a warm palm on his back, steadying him. “For you… There’s nothing. I can’t sense anything in you.”

“Cas said that,” Dean agreed glumly, hands falling limply into his lap. “He says I’m pretty much a psychic dead-zone.”

“It’s true,” Sam informed him, ducking down to meet his gaze. “I can’t sense you psychically. I can feel something like a chain between us, but…” he shrugged, looking apologetic. “The only way I know you’re there, is because of… I guess it’s our soulmate bond?”

“Don’t say that, Dude,” Dean screwed up his features, turning his face away. “Do you know how chick-flicky that sounds?”

Rolling his eyes, Sam took a step back. Dean watched as his brother turned to Missouri, Magda copying his movements next to him, both ready to learn from her teachings. It amused him, briefly, that his brother, powerful as he was, had to learn from the much weaker-powered Missouri, but then he realised that part of the reason was because he had been so scared to use his powers that he had never truly learned, at least not from anyone but that Hell-bitch, Ruby. Guilt welled up within him again, but he shoved it down. It wasn’t the time to focus on it, right then.

Behind him, water dripped into the sink, giving a dull metallic tap every few seconds. It irritated him to no end, the faint hum of the psychics in the room talking, the dripping of the tap, the drone of the fridge. Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore it all, instead breathing in the faint apple-and-banana scent from the fruit bowl, the lingering aroma of fresh-baked bread, the cut grass wafting in gently through the window.

So focused was he on that, that when the three psychics turned towards him, he barely paid any attention to them.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice surprised him, jolting him out of his mindless haze. “We’re ready when you are.”

“I’m ready now,” He pointed out, making movements similar to grabby-hands at his brother. “Doctor Sammy’s in the house.”

“Hardly a doctor,” Sam pointed out, disagreeing with his older sibling, just as little brothers all over the world are wont to do. At least, Dean figured they were. “So, you know…” he laughed nervously, rubbing at the back of his neck. Dean watched as the ends of his hair caught on his arm, tickling the skin. “Don’t be surprised if the operation goes wrong.”

“You’ll do fine,” Missouri patted his brother on his back, before dragging him into position by the back of his shirt. She took his hand on one side, while Magda took his hand on the other. All three of them closed their eyes. Dean felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, nerves tickling at the base of his spine. It was like they were doing a séance, and he said as much. “Hardly,” Missouri harrumphed, shaking her head until her earrings clacked again. “You’re a distracting man, Dean Winchester, and we need to focus.”

Taking that as the chastisement it was, Dean fell silent, biting his lip hard enough that he knew his skin had turned bloodless white. It was difficult not to speak, especially when he was surrounded by three people who would all, for all intents and purposes, be doing witchcraft. While he was aware it was a perfectly natural form of it, no demons involved, it didn’t help settle his nerves. Witches had _always_ been the enemy. Of that, Dean had been certain for his entire life, even before he had known about hunting. Yet, there he sat, facing his brother, about to tap into witchy powers for… Well, Dean realised suddenly, his brother had been tapping into them for years, hadn’t he?

Closing his eyes, Dean went back to inhaling the scents of a well-used kitchen and summer-days. It was soothing, persuading his hairs to lie down flat, until a new sensation prickled around him. It was cold, like Sam’s psychic powers always were, but this time it felt more like a tingle, more like a directed hum. It was a buzz, like electricity prickling over his skin, turning his body to white-noise and pins-and-needles and static-electricity all at once. He was a living, breathing power conductor, and it made him squirm.

So much did he squirm, that he slid off his stool. Unable to see, vision grey and fuzzy, spotting here and there with black, Dean reached out, grabbed the first thing he could touch. A soft noise of surprise, then dismay, reached his ears. Briefly, the sensations engulfing his body tapered out, until they rose again at double the intensity, burning along his skin, through every vein. He wanted to cry out, to beg whoever it was to please, _please_ , disconnect him from the live-wire that was coursing through him like icy fire, but he couldn’t.

Eternity seemed to pass like that, trapped in that purgatory, until finally, _finally_ , the feeling began to coalesce in one place. Away from his heart, his head, his eyes, Dean could finally blink them open, peer blearily at his hands, where the prickling, sparking sensation was becoming stronger and stronger, harsher and harsher. Nothing was there, though it felt as if needles should have been sticking out of every last inch of available skin.

Eventually, even that began to taper out, turning into a stinging, then a tickling, and then just the memory of it, an itch that Dean very, very warily, reached out to scratch. To his delight, his skin didn’t turn pink. Breathing a sigh of relief, Dean reached up to rub his face, trying to coax the blood back into his skin – he knew how white he had to look, in that moment – trying to tease his hair back into laying naturally, not looking like a hedgehog had found a plug socket and stuck its paw in it.

“Dude,” Dean croaked. He licked his lips, before blinking stickily at his brother’s face. “That was brutal.”

“I told you,” Sam panted, swaying on his feet. He moved around Dean, climbing gingerly into a chair before flopping his forearms onto the table, propping himself up somewhat reluctantly. To Dean, he looked like he wanted to lay down forever, or possibly longer, however long it took to recharge his batteries. Witchcraft was definitely not where his brother was channelling his power, Dean could tell, at least not anymore. “I’m not a doctor.”

“You did well, Sam,” Missouri ruffled the hair on the back of his brother’s head carefully, before wrapping her cardigan around her and stepping away. “I’ll make you some tea. You too, Dean.”

“Tea?” Dean wrinkled his nose, climbing back up onto the seat next to his brother. “I don’t drink tea.”

“You’ll drink _my_ tea,” Missouri warned him, before bustling around the isle, drawing a shiny blue kettle from within her cupboard and placing it firmly on the stove-top.

“Would you like me to get you a new shirt?” Magda asked Sam.

To Dean’s surprise, she looked a little wary, a little pale. Turning a confused glance upon his brother, Dean received only a shrug in response, the one that said Sam would tell him later, not the one that told him to forget it. Glad that he would get an explanation, he panned his gaze down his brother, wondering why Sam would need a new shirt. It took him a few seconds to notice. When it did, he burst into an exhausted chuckle.

“Dude!” He exclaimed, clapping his hand down on his brother’s tired-tensed shoulder. “Your shirt!”

“You grabbed it when you fell! And you’re wearing hot-pink too!” Sam pointed out, whiney and tired, but not, apparently, particularly upset. Dean watched as his brother turned to Magda, said to her, “I don’t need one, Magda. Unlike my brother here, I don’t mind wearing bright pink clothes.”

“Then why don’t you have any in your wardrobe?” Dean asked, folding his arms and giving his brother a challenging look, though one corner of his lips was pulled up, just a little. “Check-mate.”

“Because I can’t hunt in hot-pink, Dean,” Sam pointed out, rolling his eyes. “And I didn’t say I _liked_ wearing the colour.”

Taking pity on his brother – Sam was massaging his temples like his life depended on it, and bags were painted under his eyes that Dean was certain hadn’t been there before they’d lifted the curse placed on him – he fell silent, waiting patiently for the tea Missouri was going to force down him (he had no doubt she was going to stand over him, watching him with that disappointed expression until he caved and drank it), swinging his feet and, very, very carefully, avoiding getting scuff-marks on Missouri’s kitchen island.

Finally, to the tune of a lawnmower growling in the background, and children laughing in delight and exhilaration both, two mugs of tea were placed down on the counter, steaming hot. Making sure not to brush the cup itself, Dean hooked two fingers around the handle and dragged it closer to himself, protecting it within the barrier of his arms. It was giving off a smell like some sort of flower, though Dean couldn’t place it himself. Next to him, his brother hummed in gratitude, sending a grateful smile Missouri’s way.

“You two drink your tea,” Missouri ruffled both of their hair from the other side of the counter, before backing away. Exhaustion was beginning to smother Dean, begging him to get some rest, persuading him that the tickling, itching sensation he had been feeling was no more. “Magda and I will go out to the paint store.” Directing her next sentence to the girl hovering nervously in the doorway, Missouri swept out of the room. Dean could still hear her voice as it carried along the corridor, saying, “Looks like you and I are going to be busy decorating for a while, Girl.”

Leaning forward on the island, nudging his tea out of the way so he wouldn’t headbutt it and leave stains he would never be able to scrub out of the wood on the island, Dean laid his head on his arms. Chin facing his brother, he studied Sam as intently as his tired mind would let him, grinning sleepily when Sam lay down next to him, eyes already slipping closed. Barely even thinking about it, Dean shifted his elbow until it brushed against his brother’s, then let his own eyes slide shut, carrying him away to the land of nod, somewhere blessedly away from anywhere bright, obnoxious pink.


	12. Surrounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean come back from a hunt in the forest, only to find the Impala surrounded by FBI agents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, 
> 
> I hope this chapter is okay. It's pretty quick, as I'm afraid I didn't have much time to write this week, but I hope it works for everyone anyway. Also, you'll have to forgive me for any inaccuracies. My only information about FBI agents comes from American TV shows such as Supernatural, which I think is probably pretty inaccurate. Being incredibly British, I have very little idea about them at all! 
> 
> Please feel free to leave comments, and thank you to all of those who have already left comments and kudos. You are greatly appreciated! 
> 
> So, without further ado, enjoy... :)

Surrounded

Fear lanced through Dean as he crept forward through the forest, the night air damp and chilly around them. It was turning into fall, and the first autumnal breeze was blowing through the trees, making the yellowing leaves quiver on their branches, quiver in much the same way his brother’s breath did when he paused in front of Dean.

“Sam?” he whispered, not daring raise his voice higher. When his brother panicked, it was over no small thing. “What’s wrong?”

“Shh,” was the only reply he got, along with Sam gesturing awkwardly behind him with his hand to zip it.

Carefully, he backed up, leaving Dean no choice but to follow suit, unless he wanted to be trampled over in his brother’s sudden desire to move backwards, to conceal himself in the bushes.

Frustrated, Dean shoved himself past Sam, taking pains to remain concealed within the undergrowth in the forest, knowing full well that, if he alerted whatever Sam had seen to their presence there, they would be in trouble. Shrugging off his brother’s giant hand, the one that was tugging at his shoulder insistently, trying to pull him back into the forest, Dean peered out into the clearing by the road where they’d left the Impala.

It was surrounded.

As Dean watched, astounded, the headlights of the other cars flashed on, illuminating the clearing as brightly as if it were daylight. Hissing a curse under his breath, he shrank back into the foliage, feeling as his brother pressed closer to his side, trying to make himself as small as possible. They had to hide. Desperately. FBI agents, two of them agents Sam and Dean had worked with on the hunt, were surrounding the Impala.

Hopefully, Dean turned back to his brother, whispered, “Maybe they don’t know it’s us?”

The only response he received was a withering look, the one Sam always gave him when he thought he was being an idiot. Sheepishly, Dean shrugged, a ‘what can you do?’ look sent back at his brother. Why shouldn’t he believe in the best case scenario, even just once?

Sighing, Dean patted his brother’s chest, gesturing with a thumb thrown over his shoulder that they should go. As much as he hated leaving Baby in the hands of the FBI, they could come back and get her later. After all, it was possible the agents just thought they had found the fabled car of the Winchester brothers. Why should they believe that Sam and Dean Winchester were still alive? They had been pronounced conclusively dead during their previous encounter with the law. And the one before that, too.

Hastily, Sam moved backwards, feet silent over the uneven terrain. Dean envied him that skill. Despite his best efforts, he’d never quite perfected the absolute silence that Sam could walk with. Sometimes, when Sam was angry, it was almost like he exuded the silence, brought it with him in his fury. Luckily, that wasn’t the case today, or Dean suspected they would never escape. A pocket of silent stillness travelling through a forest was bound to draw attention, and though the monster of the week was gone, killed by Dean’s own hand, the agents swarming Baby would be trouble enough in themselves.

Unfortunately for Dean and his not-so-silent feet, his foot came down on a twig. It cracked.

Wincing, lip bitten white in anticipation, Dean held stock-still, waiting for the cry of alarm from near the road. When no such cry came, he breathed a sigh of relief, alerted to his brother’s own sigh by the warm air curling over his neck, waving through the short hairs there. Glad they were safe, Dean took another step backwards, then another. The agents clearly hadn’t been trained in how to survive in the forest, hadn’t been drilled on the fact that every snap of a twig could spell death or disaster. So long as they went carefully, Dean knew they could still get out of this.

Sinking deeper into the columns of trunks, Dean straightened up, knowing his brother would do the same. In the darkness, well within the trees, they should be safe. None of the agents were taking the initiative to sweep the forest floor. None of them even seemed to suspect it to be a possibility that the Winchester brothers were lurking within the trees. Turning back, an idiot’s grin stretched across his lips, Dean held his hand up for his brother, a high-five in the waiting. They’d successfully snuck away from the Feds.

Light shone over Sam’s face, deer-in-the-headlights in every sense. Sam froze, eyes widening. Dean watched in horror as the colour leached from Sam’s skin, as his ever-changing eyes met with someone’s across the short expanse of night-blackened, torch-lit forest. There was a moment in which both Federal agent and hunter paused, shock sticking them in place better than any glue ever could. Then, to Dean’s absolute dismay, the cry of alarm went up.

Within seconds, a voice on some sort of loud-haler or microphone emerged, imperious and authoritative.

“Stay where you are,” it said, not naming them. Dean suspected it was because they were struggling to believe that men named twice dead – and really, they’d died more often than that, in entirely different circumstances – were standing in the forest right across from them. “Put your hands in the air and don’t move.”

Not having that, Dean fumbled behind him, patting at his brother’s chest in panicked hurry, indicating that Sammy should run. Dean would be hot on his heels, just as soon as he had torn his eyes away from the four men and two women scrabbling for their weapons, just as soon as he knew his little brother would get away, at the very least.

Sam, not liking that idea it would seem, dug his fingers around Dean’s elbow, latched on tight enough that, when he began running, Dean was pulled back with him. Together they turned tail and fled, hearing the sound of shots firing behind them.

Pain bloomed against Dean’s side, and he stumbled, striking one knee into a thorny floor as he went down. Gasping, he clutched at his side, feeling sticky-warm-wetness on his hands immediately, bursting through his shirt. Eyes wide, heart thumping so loudly in his chest he could hear nothing else, he probed at the wound, Sam dropping to his knees beside him to paw at it with his gigantic, clumsy hands.

Together, they came to the conclusion that he had just been grazed, that the wound was hardly as bad as it could have been, and could wait for them to get to safety before they treated it. It would have to wait. Just behind them, Dean could hear the sound of thumping boots, the squelching of leaf-mulch and mud and the snapping of twigs. The agents were coming their way, and coming fast.

Staggering back to his feet, using his brother as a crutch to get there, Dean threw himself forwards again. Next to him, his brother held himself back from running full-pelt, hovering around Dean like an anxious mother hovered around a toddler who had just learned to walk. Irritated, Dean splayed his hand on his brother’s back and shoved him forwards, ignoring the way he stumbled, grateful when Sam took the hint and began running properly again.

It wasn’t long before Dean realised that his wound was slowing him down, the pain in his side stretching and pulling with every stride. It was like someone was slicing a blade back and forward across the same stretch of skin, a cruel experiment done just to see how he would react. Even so, continue running he did, though he continued to fall further and further behind his brother.

Eventually, he had to stop.

Pressing his forearm against a tree, the rough bark grazing his skin just a little, Dean rested his forehead against his arm and sucked difficult breath after difficult breath in, his free hand clutching at his side. Blood poured over it again, the wound unable to clot due to his running. Groaning, he listened as the thumping boots and harsh breaths surrounded him, as they spread out around him.

Looking up, he darted his eyes around the clearing, avoiding the beams of light and looking into the shadows. No familiar faces revealed themselves to him from the dark, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. Sammy was safe. Sammy was gone.

A brave agent stepped forward into the ring created by the flashlights.

“I’m arresting you,” the woman began, a gun raised and pointed straight at Dean’s back. From the awkward vantage point he had of the clearing, viewed from the strained position of his chin twisting as far around as it could by his right shoulder, Dean could see she had a gun raised, trained directly on his back. “Keep your hands raised. I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.”

“Based on what evidence?” Dean gritted out, though he knew he was hardly going to be able to talk his way out of anything by that point. Innocent men didn’t tend to run. Nevertheless, he could play dumb and hope the deception worked. “I’ve done nothing, and you’ve gone and shot me!”

“Stay quiet,” the woman appeared to be trembling, and Dean figured he could guess why. Once someone had died twice, even if they hadn’t _really_ died twice, they would become more a legend than anything. Even experienced agents would be wary taking on two of the most prolific killers in modern day America. “Hands up. Stay where you are.”

To Dean’s surprise, it wasn’t him she was talking to in that moment. Her gun whipped away from Dean to focus on an intruder in the clearing, an intruder Dean knew well.

“Dammit, Sammy,” he groaned, ignoring the ginger-haired agent as she whipped her gun back around to him again. Slowly, with his hands still raised, Dean turned enough to face his brother. “Why did you come back?”

“I couldn’t leave you,” Sam’s face did that stupid crumpling thing it did, where his brow furrowed and his eyes became water-shined and enormously big. This time it was almost as bad as it had been when he was three, a time when even his lips had trembled with it. “You’re bleeding.”

Despite the tense situation, nobody shot either of them as Sam came stumbling towards him, tearing off the bottom of his flannel as he did so. Wadding it up, he came towards Dean and pressed the flannel into his wound, leaving Dean to hiss and groan as pain lanced throughout his abdomen, up through his chest and into his neck and arms. It _burned_ , not like whiskey pouring down his throat, but like fire biting at his skin.

“Dammit, Sam!” he cried, lowering his hands to clutch at his brother’s own, ragged fingernails digging into Sam’s skin. “Careful.”

Behind him, Dean heard someone question if the name he had just heard had been correct, if he’d really just heard ‘Sam’. Discussion started up, hushed and unfocused, but eventually the conclusion amongst the agents appeared to be met that they were, indeed, dealing with the Winchester brothers. That, or copy-cat killers who idolised them enough to take their names, as one of the younger looking agents, a man barely out of his teens, it seemed to Dean, suggested.

“I don’t care who you are,” the ginger agent declared, taking the safety off of her gun. She cocked it, ready to shoot at his brother, and Dean saw red. “You are under arrest.”

With Sam blocking his body from view, it was easy to reach within his brother’s shirt to his back, where his gun was still tucked in. Palming it deftly, he whipped his hand out from under his brother’s shirt, took the safety off and cocked the gun right back at the agent. In front of him, Sam’s mouth dropped open in shock, before his features rearranged themselves into the biggest bitch-face Dean had ever seen, aimed right at him.

“Let my brother go,” Dean demanded, using his free hand to nudge Sam to the side. His brother moved a little, though his arm still reached across Dean’s body, holding the makeshift bandage-pad in place. His wound ached at his side, throbbing with every breath he took. Somehow, the pain made him steadier, gave him something to focus on that wasn’t his fear for his brother’s safety. “Let Sammy go, or I’ll shoot.”

“Dean, stop it,” Sam muttered, waving awkwardly to the agents surrounding the clearing. Sending an incredulous look Sam’s way – why was it, whenever Sam felt awkward about something, he just _waved_? – Dean tried to nudge Sam back further. It didn’t work. “We’re surrounded.”

“I _know_ that,” he snapped, the pain and stress working together to put him in a bad mood. His brother fell silent.

With Sam no longer protesting, the clearing remained still, nobody daring to move. That was, until Dean heard a sudden bang from behind him. He whirled around, eyes wildly roving until they focused on an older FBI agent, one of the pair they had worked with during their hunt that week. In fact, they’d been working with him earlier that day. He had seemed nice, if a little serious. Surprise that the man had shot at them coursed through Dean, only to double when he realised he hadn’t been hurt.

Frantically, he started pawing at Sam, but his brother batted him away, assuring him he hadn’t been hit either. It took him a few seconds to work out why Sam was being so short and rough with him, batting his worried hands away as he did.

In the air, a few meters away from Dean’s face, floated a bullet. If it had hit Dean, it would have gone right through the back of his head before he’d finished hearing the shot. He’d have been dead before he knew it. Adrenaline shooting through him at the thought of his potential death, relief that it hadn’t happened making him shaky, Dean shot his brother a grateful look. It was a miracle he wasn’t dead, one perpetrated by Sam.

Unsurprisingly, the rest of the FBI agents in the clearing did not take it as a miracle. There was a startled shout, then frantic yelling between the men. Shuffling sounded from around them, and then Dean was backing into the tree behind him, trying to get away from the quickly shrinking ring of agents. Gulping, he shared a look with his brother, while the faint dull thud of a bullet falling into wet mud sounded behind them.

To no-one’s surprise, when the agents had formed a circle close enough to perform an execution, guns raised fully and fingers began to squeeze on triggers. Heart pounding in his chest, Dean felt his throat close up, his breath getting stuck in his chest, unable to escape. His brother was psychic, yes, and incredibly powerful, but how was he going to stop this? Sam had already admitted that stopping _one_ gun was tricky, due to the small size of the bullet and the incredible speed. Yet here they were, surrounded by six.

Closing his eyes, Dean braced himself, pressing his brother into the tree behind him, hoping to shield him from the shots he knew were coming. Sam made a startled sound, but beyond that made no indication that he was going to move. Peeking from a barely-cracked open lid, Dean saw his brother’s face screwed up in concentration, knew that this would be the moment that would decide their fate.

A multitude of bangs resounded, echoing around the forest, bouncing off the trees and causing what seemed to be an entire flock of birds to flee the area. Dean flinched, shoving his brother backwards hard into the tree trunk with the violence of his reaction. Sam let out a huff of pain, winded by the hit.

It took Dean a moment for him to register that, other than the aching, bitter pain at his side, no new pain blossomed, nothing tore through him. He was fine.

Cracking an eye open, Dean saw all the bullets hanging in the air before them, saw as they dropped at the same time, hitting the ground like particularly heavy, lethal raindrops. He felt his brother’s body tip forwards, felt as Sam transferred some of his weight to Dean. Gladly holding his brother up, Dean grinned at the stunned look on the FBI agents’ faces. He actually let out a bellow of a laugh when the guns were ripped from their hands, flung backwards by Sam’s power.

Panic was crumpling the faces of most of the agents’ by that point. Sure, they might have been trained for any situation, but any situation normally didn’t cover psychic powers. They began backing away a few paces, and Dean was glad. Sam was beginning to get heavy.

The drip on his neck alerted him to the fact that something was wrong. He almost would have thought it was rain, were it not for the fact that it was warm.

“Too… much,” Sam bit out, one of his hands reaching up to clutch at his head, the other wiping at the blood dripping from his nose. Fingers curled into his hair, Sam digging his nails into his own scalp, and Dean twisted awkwardly, still keeping his brother in his grasp, but manoeuvring his body to be facing Sam’s. Reaching up, he tried to unlatch Sam’s fingers from his hair, but it was a difficult task, so tightly clenched into it were they. Sam was groaning, woozy and swaying. “Too much, Dea—”

With that, he dropped forward, eyes rolling up into his head. Horrified, Dean followed him down, kneeling in the leaf-mulch next to his still form. Patting his cheek desperately, knowing that he was going to need Sam’s own help to get him out of the forest – Sam was too big for Dean to carry, his muscled form too heavy – Dean called out his brother’s name, hoping to rouse him.

So focused on his task was he that he didn’t even notice the FBI agents relocating their weapons, not until they were right upon him.

A cold barrel was pressed to his neck, rotting mulch transferring to his skin, making him itch. Dean froze, chest refusing to expand with his breath. Carefully, he raised his hands, swallowing as he did so.

“Dean Winchester,” a cold voice, the only other female agent’s, said. “You’re under arrest. You and that freak brother of yours.” 


End file.
